"b./ifJC', 


PRINCETON,  N.  J.  ''^ 


Presented    by  (^\  .  (S~\  .  0<:7\V^r\c2-V^cOY-\  ~^y>  .~D, 


Division 
Section  ■■ 


1 


GOD'S  REVENGE 


AGAINST 


ADULTERY, 


<WFULLY    KXEMPLIFIBD    IN    THE    FOLLOWING    CASES 


AMERICAN  CRIM.  CON. 


I.   THE   ACCOMPLISHED   DR.  THEODORE   WILSON,  (DCLAWARB,)   WHO 

FOR    SEDUCINi.    MRS.    KANCY    WILEY,    HAD    HIS    BRAINS 

BLOWN    OUT    BY     HER    HUSBAND. 


II.    THE     ELEGANT    JAMES    ONEALE,  ESQ.    (NORTH    CAROLINA,)     WHO 

FOR    SEDUCING    THE    BEAUTIFUL    MISS    MATILDA    LBB- 

TRANCE,   WAS    KILLED  BY    HER.  BROTHBR 

/ 

BY  MASON  L.  WEEMS, 

AUTHOR  OF  THE  LIFE  OF  WASHINOTOX. 


&«><^^@^^^ 


BALTIMORE: 

PBHTTED  BY  RALPH  W.  POMEROY  &  CO. 

1815. 


DISTRICT  OF   MARYLAND,  to  IDtt: 

BE  IT  REMEMBERED,  That  on  this  twenty-fourth 
?K50()tf*y  day  of  December,  in  tlie  thirty-nintih  year  of  the  Indepen- 
yH  ^  dence  of  the  United  States  of  America,  Mason  L.  Weeras, 

}ti  SEAL  ifn  of  the  said  District,  hath  deposited  in  this  office,  the  title  of 
^  .  ^'^  a  book;  the  right  whereof  he  claims  as  author,  in  the  words 
3KjK^iki^  and  figures  following,  to  wit: 

"God's  Revenge  against  Adultery,  Awfully  Exemplified  in  the  fol- 
"lowing  Cases  of  American  Crim.  Con.  I.  The  accomplished  Dr. 
"Theodore  Wilson,  (Deleware.  who,  for  seducing  Mrs.  Nancy  Wiley, 
♦«had  his  brains  blown  out  by  her  husband.  II.  The  elegant  James 
"Onealc,  Esq.  (North  Carolina)  who,  for  seducing  the  beautiful  Miss 
"Matilda  Lestrange,  was  killed  by  her  brother.  By  M.  L.  Weems, 
"author  of  the  Life  of  Washington." 

In  conformity  to  the  Act  of  the  Congress  of  the  Uhited  States,  en- 
titled "An  Act  for  the  encouragement  of  learning,  by  securing  the 
copies  of  maps,  charts,  and  books,  to  the  authors  and  proprietors  of 
such  copies,  during  the  times  therein  mentioned."  And  also  to  the 
act  entitled,  "An  Act  supplementary  to  the  act,  entitled,  'An  Act  for 
the  encouragementof  learning,  by  securing  the  copies  of  maps,  charts, 
and  books,  to  the  authors  and  proprietors  of  such  copies,  during  the 
times  therein  mentioned,'  and  extending  the  benefits  thereof  to  the 
arts  of  desiening,  engraving,  and  etching,  historical  and  other  prints." 

PHILLIP  MOORE, 
Clerk  of  the  District  of  Maryland. 


The  charming  glow  of  virtuous  love. 

Luxuriantly  indulge  it; 
But  never  tempt  the  lawless  rove. 

Though  nothing  should  divulge  it. 

For  mortal  hate  will  sure  ensue, 

When  brutal  lust's  abated; 
And  wounds  and  death  are  ever  due, 

To  husband's  rights  invaded BURNS- 


God's  Revenge  against  Adultery 


When  thy  judgments  are  abroad  in  the  earth  the  inhabitants  of  iht 
world  will  learn  witDoi«. — taaiak  axvi.  9. 


DOCTOR  lltcodore  AVilson,  the  chief  actor  in  this 
Iragecff,  was  a  native  of  Lewistown  in  the  state  of  Dela- 
ware. His  father  was  a  Presbyterian  preaehtr,  p*eat!y 
celehrated  through  all  that  eounlry  for  his  piety  and  ac- 
tive charity,  in  which  latter  gi-acc  he  found  so  much 
pleasure  that  he  studied  physio,  on  purpose  that  like  his 
divine  master  he  might  heal  the  eoi-poreal  as  well  as  the 
spiritual  maladies  of  his  people. 

For  his  medicines  and  attendance  on  the  poor  he  made 
no  chai^.  But  while  thus  attentive  to  the  happiness  of 
others  he  did  not  neglect  his  own.  From  the  numerous 
flocks  which  he  fed,  he  early  selWWirfWlat  the  prophet 
happily  terms — a  little  ave-lamh,  i.  e.  a  sweet  faced, 
hhishing  maiden  whom  he  consecrated  to  himself  in  holy 
wedlock.  **S/ie  did  eat  of  his  own  bread  and  drank  of 
his  own  cup,  and  did  lie  in  his  hosonif  and  was  unto  him 
better  than  a  daughter.** 

Struck  with  the  angel-like  beauty  of  his  first  born,  the 
delighted  father  called  him  Theodore,  which  in  the 
Greek  language  signifies  "the  fair  gift  of  god." 
For  a  considerable  time  it  was  believed  by  his  friends 
that  his  title  had  been  well  chosen^  for  as  he  grew  in 
years  he  grew  also  in  such  charms  both  of  mind  and  bo- 
dy, that  all  were  persuaded  he  would  one  day  or  other 
make  good  his  name,  and  prove  himself  indeed  a  "choice 
gift  of  God"  to  the  world. 

As  he  advanced  to  manhood  the  blossoms  of  hope  thick- 
ened upon  him,  and  by  the  time  he  had  reached  his  one 
and  twentieth  year  his  friends  beheld  him  in  circumstan- 
ces uncommonly  flattering;  a  finished  scholar — a  gradua- 
ted physician — remarkable  for  the  beauty  of  his  person 
and  the  splendour  of  his  talents,  which  heightened  by  a 
most  graceful  elocuUon  and  polished  manners  rcMidcrcd 


him  the  admiration  uf  all^  especially  of  the  fair  sex,  frotn 
among  whom  at  this  early  period  he  selected  an  amiable 
partner.  His  wife  was  an  heiress,  the  only  daughter  of 
my  worthy  old  friend  colonel  Simon  RoUock,  of  Indian 
river.  About  the  twenty-fifth  year  of  his  life  he  was  cal- 
led to  the  sad  office  of  closing  his  father's  eyes.  As  the 
elder  son  he  then  took  possession  of  the  old  mansion-house 
in  Lewistown  the  place  of  his  nativity,  and  there  sat  down 
in  a  situation  of  uncommon  promise  of  useful  and  happy 
life.  Young,  handsome,  wealthy,  accomplished — the  hus- 
band of  an  elegant  woman — the  father  of  two  beautiful 
babes — and  extensively  engaged  in  the  beneficent  and  lu- 
cralive  duties  of  a  physician.  But  alas!  notwithstanding 
all  tl»is,  we  are  constrained  to  say  of  doctor  Wilson,  what 
the  holy  scriptures,  after  much  praise  of  him,  say  of 
Nuaman  the  Syrian,  hut  he  was  a  leperl  He  was  infected 
with  that  most  shameful  and  uneasy  of  all  diseases,  an 
incurable  lust  4ffWMii||after  strange  women. 

The  passion  for  the  lovely  sex  is  an  instinct  of  our  na- 
ture so  highly  fascinating  as  to  require  all  the  aids  of  re- 
ligion to  preserve  it  within  its  proper  limits,  heaven 
ORDERED  MARRIAGE.  And  indeed  with  all  these  aids  it 
has  too  often  been  known  to  break  forth  into  sad  acts  of 
guilt  and  shame,  as  even  the  holy  David  and  Solomon 
have  testified  to  their  lasting  sorrow.  If  then  the  saint, 
with  the  bible  daily  in  his  hands,  can  scarcely  stand,  how 
sure  must  be  the  fall  of  those  who  indulge  themselves  in 
profane  publications? 

Of  this  much  to  be  lamented  class  was  the  imprudent 
doctor  Wilson.  According  to  his  friend  and  kinsman  go- 
vernor Hall,  this  elegant  young  man  owed  his  early  down- 
fal  to  reading  'paine's  age  of  reason.'  He  was  in  the 
full  vigour  of  twenty-five  when  he  heard  of  this  libertine 
publication.  The  noise  which  it  made  in  the  world  in- 
sured to  it  an  eager  reader  in  doctor  Wilson;  and  by  his 
boundless  ardour  for  animal  pleasures  he  was  already 
prepared  to  give  Mr.  Paine  rather  more  than  fair  play, 
and  even  to  swallow  with  delight  his  bold  slanders  of  the 
bible,  and  his  still  bolder  conclusions  that  all  revelation  is 


but  a  trick  of  self-seekiog  priests.  Oa  gaining  this 
point  lie  was  to  be  happy.  Uc  iuig;ht  then  riot  and  iTvel 
in  the  sties  of  brutal  pleasure  and  never  more  diTatl  the 
gospel  trumpet  sounding  the  dismal  doom  of  adulttrei's. 
In  short,  hating  religion  because  of  the  trouble  it  gave 
him  in  his  sins,  he  determined  to  be  done  with  it,  and 
accordingly  threw  aside  his  father's  good  old  family  bi- 
ble, and  for  a  surer  guide  to  pleasure  took  up  the  age 
OF  reason!  As  a  man  going  on  a  forloni  hope  wishes  all 
the  company  he  can  get,  so  this  infatuated  gentleman, 
not  content  with  going  to  perdition  himself,  appears  to 
have  been  desirous  to  take  along  with  him  all  the  re- 
cruits that  he  could  muster.  Among  others  whom  he 
wished  to  enlist  was  his  excellency  David  Hall,  at  tliat 
time  governour  of  the  state,  and  from  whom  I  received 
most  of  the  outlines  of  this  history. 

The  doctor  often  attacked  governour  Hall  on  the  sub- 
ject of  his  religion;  and  in  the  heat  of  declamation 
against  it  would  so  far  lose  sight  of  politeness  as  often 
to  brand  it  with  the  epithets  o{**priestcraft,  supei'stition, 
nonscnsu** 

"Well  but,  doctor,"  answered  the  governour,  as  he 
told  me  himself,  *'I  wonder  how  you  came  to  be  such  an 
enemy  to  this  religion;  your  father  was  a  great  admirer 
of  it,  and  I  am  sure  if  we  may  judge  by  its  effects  on 
him  you  have  no  cause  to  dislike  it,  for  it  made  a  most 
excellent  man  of  him. 

"True,  sir,"  replied  the  doctor,  "my  father  was  a 
good  man,  but  I  don't  thauk  his  religion  for. it.  I  am 
sure  his  religion,  like  his  name,  was  a  mere  hereditary 
thing.  He  never  looked  into  the  c-idcnces  of  it  or  the 
reasons  he  had  for  it." 

"Aye,  doctor!"  answered  tJie  governour,  "if  you  eom« 
to  that  I  am  sure  you  must  soon  get  yourself  into  a  hob- 
ble; for  asi  to  the  evidences  of  the  gospel  you  will  <i<T- 
tainly  never  undertake  to  deny  that  they  uih;  what  rea- 
son entirely  approbates.  For,  sir,  what  docs  the  gospel 
teach  but  that  there  is  a  God — that  he  desires  above  all 
tkings  the  happiiirss  of  man — thai  he  delights  in  virtue. 


and  has  pi'«pared  a  glorious  heaven  wherein  «11  the  >m*- 
tuous  shall  be  happy  for  ever?  Is  not  this  ivason,  sir, 
and  the  most  excellent  reason  too?  And  what  does  the 
gospel  command,  hut  that  we  should  love  God  with  aU 
our  heart,  and  our  neighbour  as  onrself?  And  will  you 
say,  sir  that  this  is  not  reason^  Is  it  not  reason  to  love 
the  GREATEST  and  best  of  all  beings  and  he  too  our 
Creator?  And  is  it  not  reason  to  love  our  nei^^hhour 
who  is  our  own  flesh  and  blood,  especially  too  when  that 
love  would  not  only  root  bitter  hate  and  malice  out  of  oor 
hearts  and  put  a  total  end  to  all  bloody  retaliation  and 
revenge,  but  would  actually  make  us  feel  our  neighboui'S 
dear  to  us  as  brothers,  and  rejoiee  in  their  happiness  as 
our  own — thus  multiplying  our  joys,  and  turning  earth 
into  heaven?" 

"All  that's  well  enough,  sir,"  answered  the  doctor, 
*'all  that's  well  enough.  But  what  do  you  think  of  God's 
being  born  in  the  flesh  and  dying  for  our  sins! — dying 
for  such  reptiles  as  we  are!!  Is'nt  that  enough  to  make 
a  man's  hair  stand  upon  his  head?" 

"Yes,  sir,  with  wonder  at  the  divine  goodness.'* 
**No,  sir,  with  wonder  rather  of  human  madness." 
**Human  Wisdomt  you  should  have  said,  doctor." 
**Wisdom,  indeed!  heavens!  is  it  possible,  sir,  you  can 
give  to  such  absurdity  the  name  of  WisdomfJ^' 

"Yes,  I  look  on  it  as  wisdom,  as  the  sublime  of  wis- 
dom, sir.  I  look  on  the  redemption  of  miserable  man  as 
that  stupendous  kind  of  goodness  which  is  exactly  in  cha- 
racter with  God,  and  therefore  just  what  we  had  a  right 
to  expect  from  him.  I  am  a  sinner,  doctor,  a  grievous 
sinner,  and  I  want  comfort,  I  want  a  sure  comfort,  sir. 
In  a  matter  of  such  high  concern  as  the  pardon  of  my 
sins  and  eternal  life  I  don't  want  to  he  thrown  like  the 
deists  on  the  mere  conjectures  of  nature,  hoping  to  day 
and  despairing  to  morrow.  No  sir,  I  want  all  the  cer- 
tainties of  a  revelation.  And  blessed  be  God,  who  in  his 
infinite  mercy  has  condescended  to  come  in  human  shape 
in^o  the  Avorld,  to  assure  me  that  if  I  sincerely  repent  of 
my  sins  and  repose  my  faith  on  him,  in  a  new  life  of 


v^uaiTT  and  iovg,  my  sins  shall  .ill  be  forpjiven  mc,  anil 
1  sIiaII  be  reslAred  to  bis  favour  and  pence  here  anil  tu 
eternal  UapitinftMtJ^^^it^t^^^^i'*'* 

To  these  viMiiidHings  though  so  clearly  derived  from 
tUo  moral  eiiaracter  of  God,  and  so  pregnant  nvilh  eonso- 
lation  to  pour  ntortals  eonscious  of  guiU  and  misery  us 
we  are,  the  doctor  eould  return  no  ansivci*  but  ^coff  and 
ridicule.  Hereupon  Ihc  governour  eut  the  oonversatioA 
short,  as  he  (old  iue«  by  ihc  following;;  reply,  **well,  doe- 
tor  Wilson,  hear  me  once  for  all — I  honour  (he  memory 
of  yout*  excellent  old  father,  and  I  have  a  {^i^at  friend- 
ship for  you;  it  will  thei-cforc  never  do  for  me  to  quarrel 
with  you;  and  especially  about  religion,  of  which  I  know 
I  have  n€t  half  as  much  as  I  ought  to  have;  but  still, 
the  little  that  I  possess  affords  me  so  much  comfort  that 
I  would  not  give  it  up  for  ten  thousand  woHds.  So  doe- 
tor,  if  you  value  my  friendship  never  attempt  to  shake 
my  faith  again  as  long  as  you  live." 

But  though  doctor  Wilson  could  not  succeed  in  prosc> 
lyting  the  governour  to  infidelity  he  too  fatally  succeeded 
iu  confirming  himself  in  a  contempt  of  all  sacred  obliga- 
tions. The  strong  reins  of  religion  being  thus  broken 
from  the  neck  of  his  passions,  he  was  at  full  liberty  to  rush 
on  to  the  fair  but  fatal  fields  of  sensuality  with  all  Ihc 
eagerness  of  a  warm  and  vigorous  youth  of  twenty-five. 

W  ho,  or  how  many,  were  the  amorous  dames  in  whose 
embraces  he  sought  that  happiness  which  the  great  king 
Solomon  in  vain  sought  in  the  arms  of  a  thousand  of 
the  brightest  maids  of  the  cast,  we  know  not.  But  this 
Ave  know,  that  the  connexion  which  wrought  his  ruin  and 
which  furnishes  the  subject  of  this  tragedy  was  with 
Mrs.  Nancy  Wiley.  This  lady,  the  wife  of  Mr.  James 
Wiley  tavern-keeper  in  Lewistown,  was  blest,  or  rather 
as  it  turned  out,  was  curst,  witli  an  extraordinary  portion 
of  beauty.  Her  person  whether  she  walked  or  danced 
was  sufficient,  I  am  told,  to  give  the  delighted  beholders 
a  fine  idea  of  the  queen  of  love.  And  her  face  was  not 
inferior  to  her  form;  with  features  regular  and  finely 
proportioned  and  a  mouth  whose  dimpled  smiles  were 


8 

perfect  enchantment.  She  possesied  a  pair  of  large 
sparkling  eyes  which  shed  such  subtle  streams  of  sweet- 
ness into  all  hearts  that  none  could  behV)M'her  without  tu- 
mults of  deli-ht.  This  is  but  a  feeble  outline  of  that 
loveliness  which  the  hand  that  made  her  had  poured  over 
her  person.  Oh  had  her  mind  been  proportionably  adorn- 
ed with  the  charms  of  prudence  and  piety,  those  two 
wretched  gentlemen  doctor  Wilson  and  her  husband  had 
never  been  brought  down  to  their  early  graves  in  such 
floods  of  sorrow  and  blood.  But  alas!  it  fared  with  Mrs. 
Wiley,  when  young,  as  it  does  with  many  a  sweet  mai- 
den that  promises  to  be  handsome — she  was  shamefully 
neglected  as  to  her  mind. 

*'What  an  angel  that  girl  would  &6,"  said  a  sensible 
friend  to  her  mother,  **if  she  could  but  receive  the  polish 
ef  a  good  education."* 

"Never  mind;  let  Nancy  alone;'*  retorted  the  silly  mo- 
ther,  "she  will  be  angel  enough  I'll  be  bound,  for  her, 
without  education."  And  thus,  even  to  this  day,  many 
a  christian  mother,  in  bringing  up  her  daughter,  goes  on 
to  accord  with  that  silly  old  ballad  which  used  to  divert 
us  in  the  nursery — 

*^*And  what's  young  women  made  of,  made  of} 

Pinks  and  roses,  and  such  sweet  posies,  thaVs  what 
young  women''s  made  of* 
Thus  actually  degrading  the  immortal  fair  to  the  level 
of  garden  flowers!  the  mere  creatures  of  colours,  and 
perfumes!  Alas!  what  pity  it  is  that  heaven-destined  wo- 
man shouM  suffer  herself  to  be  cheated  of  far  more  than 
half  her  beauties!  and  that  because  of  her  pretty  lips 
and  cheeks,  all  faces  are  brightened  with  sweet  surprise 
when  she  enters  the  room,  and  all  the  young  men  are 
jostling  each  other  to  reach  a  chair  or  pick  up  her  glove, 
she  should  so  confide  in  these  short-lived  beauties  of  the 
body  as  to  neglect  those  immortal  beauties  of  the  mind 
WISDOM  and  pikty,  which  furnish  the  best  securities  of 
innocent  and  honourable  life! 

Such  cruel  neglect  of  parents  to  direct  their  daughters 
to  the  pleasures  of  the  mind  has  been  the  ruin  of  many  a 
fine  girl.     It  proved,  in  the  sequel,  the  ruin  of  (he  bean- 


9 


tiful  Mrs.  Wiley.  Having  never  been  taught  to  polish 
that  immortal  jewel  her  soul,  she  had  nothing  left  but  to 
polish  the  poor  easket  her  body — to  trick  it  up  in  gaudy 
attire — to  perfume  it  >vith  sweet  odours — to  blaneh  its 
skin — to  whiten  its  teeth — to  curl  its  tresses,  making  it 
in  this  way,  the  goddess  of  her  devotions.  Thus  idolized 
by  herseir,  she  expected,  of  course,  that  her  dear  person 
should  be  idolized  by  all  others.  And  those  were  most 
sure  of  her  favour  who  most  Haltered  her  vanity. 

No  man  need  be  a  eonjiirer  to  predict  that  the  first 
interview  between  doctor  Wilson  and  Mrs.  Wiley  should 
produce  an  unbounded  idolatry  on  both  sides,  and  also 
that  the  result  would  be  but  little  honourable  to  Mrs. 
Wiley  or  her  husband.  How  long  this  giddy  fair  one 
listened  to  the  fatal  voice  of  the  charmer  before  she  was 
prevailed  on  to  violate  her  marriage  vows  is  not  certain, 
but  it  is  generally  believed  that  it  was  a  considerable 
time  before  it  was  even  suspected  by  her  injured  partner. 
The  truth  is,  Mr.  Wiley  was  a  gay,  w arm  hearted  young 
Irishman,  a  character  but  little  prone  to  jealousy.  And 
besides,  there  were  in  his  nature  several  other  obstaelos 
to  jealously,  all  growing  out  of  the  same  amiable  warmth 
of  soul.  Never  was  a  man  more  wrapped  up  in  another 
than  he  was  in  doctor  Wilson.  About  the  time  of  his  first 
settling  in  Lewistown  he  had  been  brought  to  death's 
door  by  a  most  violent  attack  of  the  billious  fever.  Af- 
ter all  other  medical  aid  had  failed,  doctor  Wilson  was 
sent  for;  and  in  a  few  days,  contrary  to  all  expectations, 
restored  him  to  his  family  and  life  again.  His  gratitude 
became  unbounded.  He  spoke  of  doctor  Wilson  as  his 
saviour  and  thought  he  could  never  do  enough  for  him. 
Nothing  appeared  to  give  him  so  much  pleasure  as  doc- 
tor Wilson's  company,  and  he  was  always  contriving  some 
fond  expedient  to  obtain  it.  If  he  could  get  a  finer  fish 
or  a  nicer  haunch  of  venison  than  ordinary,  doctor 
Wilson  must  be  sure  to  come  and  dine  with  him.  And 
if  any  travellers  of  more  than  common  rank  called  for 
the  night  at  his  tavern,  he  must  send  for  the  doctor  to 
sup  and  spend  the  evening  with  biui. 
B 


10 

One  so  beloved  is  not  apt  to  be  suspected.  And  in 
favour  of  one  thus  beloved  we  are  apt  to  make  a  thou- 
sand apologies.  Hence  when  a  friend  once  observed  to 
him  that  he  thought  doctor  Wilson  was  rather  too  fami- 
liar with  Mrs.  Wiley,  he  replied,  ''Pshaw!  the  doctor  is 
a  finished  gentleman^  sir,  and  I  look  on  his  attention  to 
my  wife  as  a  complimeHt  to  me/"  Thq  whispers  of  suspi- 
cion were  however  so  frequently  sounded  in  his  ears  that 
it  began  at  last  to  make  him  uneasy^  and  stepping  acci- 
dentally one  day  into  his  chamber  when  it  was  thought 
by  his  wife  that  he  was  gone  abroad,  he  caught  the  doc- 
tor on  the  sofa  with  Mrs.  Wiley  in  his  lap,  leaning  her 
cheek  against  his  bosom,  he  fondly  encircling  her  in  his 
arms  and  printing  burning  kisses  on  her  lips. 

Had  hell  itself  been  suddenly  exposed  to  his  view,  it 
could  hardly  have  struck  him  with  equal  horrour.  His 
heart  still  clinging  to  its  loves,  would  have  given  worlds 
for  a  ray  of  hope,  for  a  show  of  apology  for  them.  But 
alas!  there  was  none.  In  their  deep  confusion  and  crim- 
son blushes  he  too  plainly  read  their  guilt.  Then  for 
the  first  time  he  felt  the  pangs  of  jealousy,  that  dread- 
ful passion  which  like  a  two-edged  sword  of  hell  stabs  to 

death  his  repose,  not  only  the  present  but  the  past 

Things  which  in  the  confidence  of  love  had  passed  quite 
unnoticed,  now  rush  on  his  mind  as  proofs  of  blackest 
guilt,  their  long  evening  ivalks  together!  their  frequent 
ridings  out  in  his  gig!  He  raves  to  think  he  should  have 
been  so  blind.  He  curses  his  easy  credulity  which  had 
suffered  such  barefaced  baseness  to  pass  so  long  unmarked. 

Had  he  wanted  any  further  proof  of  their  guilt  he 
jnight  have  found  it  abundantly  in  the  altered  conduct 
of  Ins  wiiej  for  as  no  man  can  serve  two  masters,  so  no 
woman  can  love  two  men.  The  husband  and  the  gallant 
cannot  long  hold  an  equal  place  in  her  affections,  she 
will  cleave  to  the  one  and  despise  the  other.  The  woman 
whose  price  is  ahove  rubies  has  no  eye,  no  ear,  no  heart 
but  for  her  husband.  Wrapped  up  in  him  she  remains 
tiappily  indifferent  to  others,  "ffas  not  your  husband  a 
very  had  hrcathT*  said  a  Hemirep  to  a  wife  of  thisexccU 


11 


lent  sort.  ** Indeed j'^*  replied  the  lady  very  innocently. 
**I  doii't  know.  I  nevei'  smelled  any  other  gentleman's 
breath  but  my  dear  hu8band*s.** 

But  Mrs,  Wiley  was  not  one  of  this  high  character. 
She  had  an  eye  to  wander  and  make  comparisons.  This 
was  a  loosing  game  to  her  husband:  for  doctor  Wilson, 
as  we  before  hinted,  was  an  Apollo  in  his  form,  and  a 
Chesterfield  in  his  manners,  which  added  to  the  eclat  of 
bis  talents,  and  his  scrviceablencss  as  a  physician,  gave 
him  a  wonderful  popularity  in  Lewistown,  and  the  neigh- 
bouring country.  No  wonder  that  such  a  gallant  should 
too  fatally  have  succeeded  against  poor  Mr.  Wiley  in  the 
affections  of  his  wife.  This  was  but  too  visible  in  every 
part  of  her  behaviour  towards  him.  She  studiously  avoid- 
ed his  company  of  which  she  used  to  be  so  fond — her 
looks  were  no  longer  bright  with  smiles — her  eyes  no 
tnore  beamed  with  tenderness — and  even  in  the  bed  sanc- 
tified by  hymen,  she  would  turn  from  him  as  with  dis- 
gust, and  toss  and  sigh  like  one  whose  heart  was  set  up- 
on some  absent  love. 

If  there  be  a  trial  in  life,  which  more  than  any  other 
requires  the  mighty  supports  of  philosophy  and  relip;ion, 
it  is  this.  And  had  Mr.  Wiley  been  eithci*  u  SociaUs  oi- 
a  Paul,  he  might  have  sustained  the  shock  with  forti- 
tude. The  baseness  of  his  friend,  and  ihe  falsehood  of 
his  wife,  would  have  (aught  him  more  highly  to  prize 
the  immortal  charms  of  virtue,  and  to  rejoice  in  the  re- 
collection that  he  had  placed  his  heart  on  a  nobler  love 
than  a  faithless  woman's  smiles.  But  alas!  poor  W'iley 
was  no  pliilosopher  nor  christian.  No  hopes  had  he  be- 
yond those  of  time  and  sense — no  Joys  in  reversion  to  con- 
sole him  under  sorrows  in  hand.  His  all  Mas  at  stake 
in  the  present  life.  To  n)ake  money;  and  to  enjoy  it  with 
his  friend  and  wife,  was  all  that  he  wished  for;  and  his 
wislies  appeared  to  be  in  a  fair  way  to  be  gratified.  From 
his  tavern,  which  he  had  raised  to  great  credit;  he  was 
deriving  a  handsome  revenue.  In  doctor  Wjlsoji  he  had 
a  friend  whom  he  so  highly  valued,  that,  as  governour 
Hall  assured  me,  he  would  have  gone  through  fire  and. 


It 


water  to  serve  him.  And  on  his  beautiful  wife  he  so  doa- 
ted  that  he  could  scarcely  bear  her  out  of  his  sight. 

A  heart  long  wedded  to  objects  so  dear,  could  hardly, 
without  breaking,  be  divorced  from  them  at  once;  and 
least  of  all  in  a  way  so  bitter  to  reflection.  Had  they 
been  snatched  from  him  in  the  ordinary  ways  of  mortali- 
ty, the  loss,  though  grievous,  might  have  been  borne. 
He  might  have  refl^ected  that  it  was  the  will  of  heaven, 
and  ought  to  be  acquiesced  in — he  might  have  consoled 
himself  with  the  sweet  remembrance  of  their  virtues, 
and  the  hopes  of  being  reunited  to  them  in  some  happier 
world,  where  parting  is  no  more.  But  to  have  been  rob- 
bed of  all,  by  such  accursed  means — such  brutal  lust  and 
adultery!  such  hellish  ingratitude  and  baseness!  the 
thought  is  intolerable.  Like  an  envenomed  dart  it  stings 
)iim  to  the  soul,  and  leaves  a  poison  in  tbe  wound,  which 
nothing  can  ever  heal.  And  while  all  within  him  is  an- 
guish, all  without  serves  but  to  aggravate  the  misery 
which  he  suffers  from  his  wife's  infidelity.  The  night, 
which  was  so  short  when  spent  in  her  sweet  embraces, 
now  seems  like  a  dark  eternity — the  morning,  that  was 
wont  to  catch  a  double  brightness  from  her  opening  eyes, 
now  comes  on  joyless  and  hateful — his  gardens  and  fields, 
that  shone  so  gay  in  the  days  of  his  love,  are  now  cover- 
ed with  sadness —  his  labours  tliat  were  so  pleasant  when 
sweetened  by  affection,  are  now  entirely  neglected.  A 
dark  angry  sullenness  generally  lours  on  his  brow,  but 
still  his  looks,  like  an  Indian  sky,  exhibit  the  most  sud- 
den and  violent  changes.  One  while,  perfectly  calm,  he 
sits,  and  witli  eyes  rivetted  on  her  beauteous  face,  he 
gazes  and  gazes,  till  overcome  with  tender  remembrance 
of  the  past,  his  colour  changes,  his  cheeks  swell,  his  eyes 
redden  and  fill,  then  striking  his  hand  against  his  fore- 
head with  gushing  tears  and  cries  he  sobs  out,  oh  JSTan- 
cyl  JS^ancy!  JVancy/  Then  again  as  if  struck  with  the  hor- 
rid thought  that  she  is  no  longer  his  Nancy!  that  though 
his  wedded  wife,  she  is  no  longer  his!  but  that  with  all 
her  charms — her  soul  melting  eyes — her  fragrant  bosom, 
and  sweet  delicious  person,  all,  all  are  the  willing  banquet 


13 


for  a  hated  rival  to  riot  on!  he  kindles  into  rage  indescri 
I)able — then   boundini^  over  the  floor,  like  an   iinchaini-d 
maniac,  with  darkened  brows,  and  (i^nashing  teeth  he  hurls 
his  arms,  and  dar(s  at  her  such  looks  as  if  he  Avould  tear 
her  into  a  tlioiisand  pieees. 

This  deadly  heat  of  INIr.  AViley  aj^inst  doctor  Wilson 
was  well  known  to  the  friends  of  the  latter,  who  dreadint^ 
the  consequences,  earnestly  advisetl  him  to  discontinue 
his  visits  to  Mr.  Wiley's  tavern  as  a  place  by  no  means 
safe  for  him.  But  whether  he  thought  such  a  course 
would  be  construed  as  an  acknowledgment  of  guilt;  or 
whether  he  could  not  give  up  the  pleasure  of  Mrs.  Wi- 
ley's compauy,  is  not  known;  but  so  it  was,  he  still  con- 
tinued his  visits  as  formerly.  He  did  not  however  con- 
tinue them  long  before  he  (!ame  to  that  bloody  end  which 
his  friends  had  all  along  dreaded. 

The  manner  of  his  death  was  as  follows.  The  reader 
will  here  please  allow  me  to  premise  this  sad  narrative 
with  another  equally  aweful  and  true.  It  is  considcrbly 
out  of  the  ordinary  track  of  nature  I  confess:  but  if  he 
be  a  philosopher  he  will  not  deem  it,  on  that  account, 
the  less  certain.  According  to  the. most  sobci*  and  au- 
thentick  writers,  many  persons  have  Ijecn  favoiMisi  ^vith 
a  presentiment  of  their  approaching  fate.  It  was  so  with 
this  unhappy  gentleman.  The  ghost  of  his  mother,  who 
had  been  dead  many  years,  appearo<l  to  him  in  the  deep 
sleep  of  night.  He  knew  her  to  be  his  molher.  Clad  in 
the  cold  shroud  of  the  grave  she  stood  at  the  foot  of  his 
bed.  In  the  days  of  his  innocence  the  sight  of  his  mo- 
ther had  always  filled  him  with  joy.  But  alas!  his  guilty 
life  had  killed  that  joy,  and  now  all  that  he  felt  in  her 
presence  was  strong  terror,  which  held  him  motionless 
and  mute.  After  looking  at  him  steadily  in  mournful  si- 
lence, which  she  did  for  some  time,  she  stretched  her 
pale  hand,  and  in  the  low  and  hollow  voice  of  tbe  tomb, 
thus  addressed  him — **Wn'tchcd  i/ou?ig  man,  //ly^rarc  /*• 
opening  to  receive  thee.  Oh  rejtenl!  repent!  repenl!^'  This 
said,  with  a  deep  sigh  she  vanished,  giving  him  a  look 
af  unutterable  tenderness  mingled  with  sorrow.  He  star- 


14 

ted  in  his  bed  with  violence,  and  uttered  a  piercing  shriek. 
Roused  from  her  slumbers,  and  filled  with  equal  terrors, 
his  wife  embraced  him.  By  a  candle,  that  had  been 
lighted  on  account  of  a  sick  child,  she  saw  his  counte- 
nance. It  was  pale  as  the  visage  of  death,  and  his  eyes 
stareing  forward  with  the  glare  of  horror,  "Oh  my  dear 
husband  what's  the  matter,**  she  cried  "for  God's  sake 
Whafs  the  matterT' 

"Oh  my  mother!  my  mother!"  was  all  that  he  could 
reply. 

"Wimt  of  your  mother,  my  dearest  husland,  what  of 
your  motherT'  she  asked. 

He  then  told  her  what  he  had  seen;  and  also  what  he 
had  heard.  She  endeavoured  to  persuade  him  that  it  was 
only  a  dream.  But  in  vain.  He  insisted  it  was  a  call 
from  the  invisible  world,  and  that  he  felt  an  inward  con- 
viction he  should  die  soon.  It  was  several  hours  to  day, 
but  he  could  sleep  no  more.  To  please  Mrs.  Wilson, 
whom  with  great  emphasis  he  called  the  best  wife  in  the 
world,  he  sat  down  to  breakfast  but  took  nothing  but  a 
cup  of  coffee.  He  then  went  to  his  book-case,  and  ta* 
king  down  the  age  of  reason  threw  it  into  the  fire,  say- 
ing at  the  same  time,  **cursed  hook/  it  was  yon  that  help- 
ed to  undo  me.'"  After  tliis  he  called  for  his  father's  bi- 
ble and  embraced  it  with  great  tenderness;  and  as  he 
read  in  it  shed  many  tears.  To  divert  his  mind  Mrs. 
Wilson  proposed  a  walk  in  the  open  air,  and  taking  him 
on  one  side  and  lier  little  son  on  the  other,  arm  and  arm 
they  walked  forth  to  his  favourite  garden.  The  day  was 
uncommonly  fine.  There  was  no  cloud  in  the  sky  to  ob- 
scure the  sun,  which  now  halfway  up  heaven,  shon«  like 
a  shield  of  burnished  gold  dazzling  the  earth  with  his 
glory.  Rejoicing  in  his  beams,  the  garden  plants  put 
on  their  richest  robes,  delighting  all  eyes,  and  filling  the 
air  with  their  cheering  odours.  "Who  can  look  at  all 
this,"  said  Mrs.  Wilson  with  great  sprightliness,  "and 
not  be  happy." 

It  only  serves  to  make  me  sad;  replied  he  with  a  deep 
sigh. 


15 

"0  my  hushandf  how  can  you  talk  so'} 

«I  can't  talk  otherwise,"  said  be,  "when  I  see  so 
much  beauty  and  loveliness  around  me,  how  can  I  hut 
be  sad  to  think  I  am  so  soon  to  leave  it  all  for  ever!  I 
have  often  thought  it  a  fearful  thing  to  AiCy  hut  never 
felt  it  so  horrible  as  at  this  dreadful  hour.  Would  to 
God  I  had  never  been  born!" 

"How,  my  beloved  husband,  can  you  utter  such  a  wish^ 
and  join  the  blessed  name  of  God  with  it  too?" 

Doctor  W.  Because  it  is  he  that  makes  me  do  it.  It 
is  my  dread  of  him  that  makes  existence  a  curse  and  fu- 
turity  so  frightful. 

Mrs.  W.  O  why  will  you  take  up  such  unworthy 
thoughts  of  God? 

Boctor  W.  I  can't  think  of  him  but  as  a  hater  of  Uie 

wfcked. 

Mrs,  W.  As  a  hater  of  our  sins,  my  dear,  but  not  ol 
ourselves.  He  hates  our  sins,  but  he  loves  us.  O  see 
these  bright  and  lovely  scenes  around  us!  this  earth  with 
all  its  flowery  beauties,  yon  heavens  with  all  their  daz- 
zling glories!  had  they  ten  thousand  thousand  tongues, 
could  they  speak  louder  than  they  now  do,  that  God  is 
LOVE,  and  that  he  infinitely  desires  our  happiness.  And 
least,  through  the  force  of  black  despair,  we  should 
sometimes  miss  of  this  blest  conclusion,  he  has  given  us 
a  still  brighter  evidence,  he  has  given  us  the  gospel,  to 
assure  us  that  God  so  loved  the  icorld,  that  he  gave  his 
only  begotten  son,  that  whosoever  bclieveth  in  him 
should  not  perish,  but  have  everlasting  life— and— " 

Here  he  interrupted  her  by  eai-gerly  calling  out,  '^provr. 
thist  prove  this!  only  prove  that  God  did  indeed  send  his 
son  into  the  world  to  save  such  a  wretch  as  me,  and  1 
ask  no  more.  I  shall  die  of  joy  and  gratitude  on  the 
spot."' 

"Well  my  dear,"  said  she,  "let  me  ask  you  in  the  first 
place,  is  it  not  worthy  of  God  to  save  the  wretelicd?  Is 
it  not  what  we  had  a  riglit  to  expect  of  so  all  benevolent 
a  being  as  God?" 


16 

At  this  he  started,  giving  her  a  quick  look,  as  if 
struck.with  a  new  and  welcome  idea,  and  eagerly  replied, 
**yes,  it  is  worthy  indeed  of  God  to  save  the  wretched. 
If  I  knew  any  of  the  vilest  reptiles,  even  toads  or  ser- 
pents, to  be  but  half  as  wretched  as  I  anji  I  would  do  a 
great  deal  to  relieve  them." 

JMrs.  W.  Well  then,  my  dear,  dear  husband,  how  much 
greater  joy  must  God  take  in  relieving  us,  who  are  so 
much  better  than  all  reptiles?  For,  as  our  blessed  Sa- 
viour says,  "ijf  you  who  are  evil  can  do  such  good  things, 
hoiv  much  more  must  your  heavenly  father  do  themT' 

At  this  he  caught  her  in  his  arms,  exclaiming  **0 
Polly.'  Polly!  -what  an.  angel  you  are  to  hring  me  such 
comfort!  and  embraced  her  with  tears.  Presently,  as 
if  relapsing  into  his  old  doubts,  he  said,  hut  are  you  sure 
that  this  blessed  news  is  trueT' 

"Yes,  my  dear  husband,"  replied  she  with  a  voice  of 
transport,  "these  things  are  true,  gloriously  true  indeed. 
Yonder  sun  does  not  shine  brighter  in  the  sweet  heavens, 
than  these  things  do  in  the  blessed  gospel.  And  surely 
they  are  both  from  the  same  hand.  For  as  none  but 
God  can  be  the  source  of  such  glorious  light  and  heat 
as  are  in  the  sun,  so  none  but  God  can  be  the  author  of 
such  MIRACLES,  and  doctrines  of  love  as  are  in  the 
gospel." 

Here  he  again  tenderly  embraced  her,  saying  "0  what 
a  dear  preacher  yoiL  are  to  me!  Would  God  I  had  always 
followed  such  divine  counsel  from  you  and  my  dear  old 
father!  But  I  hope  it  is  not  net  too  late!'^  He  then  re- 
turned with  Mrs.  Wilson  to  the  house,  apparently  much 
comforted.  Seeing  that  from  loss  of  sleep  and  great  agi- 
tation of  mind,  he  seemed  much  exhausted,  she  insisted 
tliat  he  should  go  and  take  a  little  repose.  He  laid  down 
but  could  not  sleep;  neither  at  dinner  could  he  be  prevai- 
led on  to  cat  any  thing.  In  the  afternoon,  to  divert  his 
gloom,  Mrs.  Wilson  invited  several  of  her  favourite  fe- 
male friends,  chiefly  of  the  younger  sort,  to  come  to  tea 
and  pass  the  evening  with  her.  Sometime,  however,  be- 
fore they  came,  governour  Hall  hearing  that  he  was  un- 


17 


well,  came  to  see  him,  and  insisted  he  should  take  a 
walk.  On  their  way  back,  it  so  happened  that  tliey  came 
near  Mr.  Wiley's  tavern.  At  sight  of  this  house,  the 
doctor,  governour  Hall  states,  seemed  much  disturbed, 
Ijis  colour  changed,  and  with  a  deep  sigh,  he  uttered 
something  in  broken  sounds,  like  "shame!  shame!  scene 
of  my  folly!'' 

Thinking  that  some  stimulus  would  be  seasonable,  the 
governour  proposed  to  him  to  step  in  and  take  a  little 
wine.  "I  feel  a  strange  depression  of  spirits,"  replied 
he;  so  let  lis  go  home;  and  besideSf  I  dont  want  to  see 
that  vile  ivoman  any  more.''  The  governour  was  over- 
joyed to  hear  this  from  him;  and  rejoined  that  Mrs. 
Wiley  was  not  at  home,  for  that  he  saw  her  riding  into 
the  country  that  morning — "so  as  you  seem  a  good  deal 
exhausted,"  continued  the  governour,  '^Het  tis  take  somC'- 
thing  to  revive  us,  and  after  that  ive  will  go  on  to  your 
house."  Accordingly  they  stepped  in,  and  took  their  seats 
in  the  large  dining  room,  which  happened  to  be  entirely 
free  of  company.  Presently  a  decanter  of  wine  was 
brought  ill,  though  not  by  Mr.  Wiley,  and  placed  with 
a  couple  of  glasses  on  the  table.  Finding  that  the  doe- 
tor  was  considerably  revived  by  a  glass  or  two  of  the 
wine  which  he  had  prevailed  on  him  to  take,  the  gover- 
nour very  good  naturedly  endeavoured  to  keep  up  his 
spirits,  and  to  that  end  he  introduced  a  topick  of  which 
he  knew  the  doctor  had  for  some  time  been  very  fond,  f.  e. 
an  exchange  of  horses.  The  governour  had,  it  seems, 
an  elegant  horse  which  the  doctor  very  much  wanted  as 
a  fine  match  for  one  that  he  owned.  A  liberal  offer  was 
now  made  on  the  part  of  the  governour,  which  instantly 
produced  the  desired  effect  of  rousing  the  doctors's  at» 
tention.  In  that  critical  moment,  sitting  in  his  arm  chair 
and  resting  his  forehead  on  the  top  of  his  cane,  as  if  ab- 
sorbed in  thought,  Mr.  Wiley  entered  the  room. — Gover- 
nour Hall  saw  him  come  in,  and  marked  the  frown  on 
his  brow,  and  also  knew  that  he  had  no  good  will  for 
doctor  Wilson,  but  not  suspecting  his  hellish  inteniion^ 
and  seeing  that  he  appeared  to  be  moving  towards  his 
bar,  he  turned  again  to  the  doctor.  But,  in  place  of  going 
D 


la 


oil  to  his  bill',  Mr.  Wiley  paused  soou  as  he  saw  the  iloc 
tor's  unguarded  posture,  and  stepping  up  to  him,  with  all 
hell  in  his  face,  clapped  a  pistol  to  his  temple  and  shot 
him  through  the  head,  crying  out,  as  the  pistol  went  off, 
*'there,  God  damn  yoUf  take  f/iaL'" 

Seeing  the  horriu  deed  that  was  done,  governour  Hall 
instantly  leaped  from  his  chair,  and  catching  Mr.  Wiley 
by  the  eolar  exclaimed,  **|/ou  damned  villiah,  have  you 
Mlled  doctor  Wilson'^** 

*'FeSf  replied  he  with  the  sullen  firmness  of  a  despe- 
rado, "I  have  killed  him  and  now  you  may  kill  me. 

The  report  of  the  pistol  soon  brought  in  a  crowd  of 
people  who  at  the  instance  of  governour  Hall,  searched 
Mr.  Wiley's  povket  and  found  another  pistol  that  had 
been  put  theve,  it  seems,  to  be  used  in  case  the  first  had 
missed  fire. 

Poor  Mrs.  Wilson,  ignorant  of  her  husband's  fate,  was 
sitting  at  her  tea-table  in  fine  spirits,  dishing  out  tea  for 
a  party  of  female  friends  who  had  come  to  spend  the  eve- 
ning. She  had  also  just  sent  for  her  husband  and  go- 
vernour Hall  to  come  up  and  join  them.  The  messen- 
ger, who  was  a  little  servant  lad,  having  arrived  at  the 
tavern  just  in  time  to  see  the  murder  of  his  master,  in- 
stantly posted  back  to  his  mistress  on  wings  of  lightning, 
and  utterly  thoughtless  of  consequences  flew  into  the 
room  crying  out  to  his,  mistress,  **o/i  madam,  master  is 
killed.'  Mr.  Wiley  killed  him.  I  saiv  him  lying  on  the  floor 
with  his  brains  running  out!'^  As  if  herself  shot  through 
the  heart  poor  Mrs.  Wilson,  pale  as  a  corpse,  sunk  with 
a  deep  groan  to  the  floor.  The  cries  of  her  children, 
and  the  shrieks  of  the  ladies  beggar  ail  description. 

The  doctor's  younger  brother  Mr.  James  Wilson,  now 
an  eminent  preacher  in  Philadelphia,  was  in  the  compa- 
ny. The  sudden  repprt  of  his  brother's  murder,  and  the 
distressing,  scene  around  him  wrought  his  youthful  brain 
to  frenzy.  Snatching  a  loaded  pistol  that  hung  in  an  ad- 
joining bedroom,  he  flew  to  the  tavern.  The  sight  of 
his  eldest  brother,  a  brother  who  had  always  been  to  him 
a  father  lying  weltering  in  his  blood,  completed  his  de- 
lirium of  riigc  aiul  stiffened  his  arm  for  destruction.  He 


19 

rushed  up  to  the  murderer,  and  thrusting  the  pistol 
against  his  Iieart  drew  the  trigger.  The  pistol  i-e fused 
to  go  oir.  lie  furiously  cocked  and  tried  it  a  second  fimc, 
hut  with  no  hettcr  success;  Mr.  Wiley,  all  the  time, 
looking  at  him  with  the  dark  smile  of  one  who  courted 
death.  Discovering  what  young  Mr.  Wilson  was  about, 
goveruour  Hall  seized  his  arm,  and  crying,  *mj/  GodJ 
what.'  are  ive  all  turning  murdevers!  took  the  pistol  from 
him,  and  for  fear  of  farther  mischief  stepped  to  the  win- 
dow and  tried  it  on  the  empty  air.  The  pistol  then  went 
off  very  clear!  and  yet  some  people  will  not  believe  in  a 
particular  providence  for  all.  Mr.  Wiley,  loaded  with 
irons,  was  presently  lodged  in  prison,  where  he  lay  till 
the  next  court.  His  trial  soon  terminated  in  his  conilcm- 
nation.  On  hearing  his  sentence  of  death  he  cried  oul 
with  a  bitter  cry,  "t/iere  JVaucy/  you  have  done  it  at  last.' 
you  have  done  it  at  last/  you  have  murdered  me  7vho  ahoays 
loved  you  soJ^'  and  hurst  into  tears.  But  it  was  plain 
that  his  tears  were  not  from  any  grief  for  himself  that 
he  was  going  to  die;  but  from  thinking  that  his  death 
should  have  been  brought  on  him  by  one  whom  he  had 
always  so  dearly  loved. 

But  though  the  horribleness  of  the  crime  hud  very 
justly  sentenced  this  unhappy  man  to  the  gallows,  yet  it 
would  seem  that  he  was  not  destined  to  die  in  that  way. 
His  friends  petioned  for  a  pardon  to  the  governour,  who 
happened  at  that  time  to  be  I.  Basset  Ksq'r.  father-in-law 
to  the  honourable  I.  A.  Bayard  Esq'r.  late  one  of  the  Uni- 
ted States  envoys  at  Ghent. 

Fortunately  for  Mr.  Wiley,  the  governour  had  long 
been  a  married  man,  and  singularly  blest  in  that  state, 
which  for  ils  iniluenee  on  the  population,  morals,  and 
happiness  of  mankind,  appeared  to  him  so  sacred  that  he 
thought  he  could  never  sulficiently  abhor  the  villian  who 
should  dare  to  violate  it  sanctities.  Soon  therefore  as 
he  heard  of  this  horrid  crime  of  doctor  Wilson — what 
rare  advantages  he  had  posessed  of  person,  wit,  wealth, 
and  high  staiuling  above  thousands — and  yet  how  impi- 
ously he  had  marred  and  damned  all  by  setting  these 
precious  gift  of  heaven  to  do  the  work  of  hell — to  work 


20 

the  disgrace  And  ruin  of  a  poor  honest  man  who  all  hut 
adored  him — to  sow  jealousy  and  mortal  hate  hetwixt 
that  man  and  his  wife — to  estrage  all  his  sweet  loves 
and  cares  of  his  children— and  by  such  bitter  afflictions 
drive  him  to  that  bloody  deed  from  which  he  should  ne- 
ver, never  more  recover  peace — soon,  I  say,  as  gover- 
nour  Basset  heard  of  this  irreparable  injury  which  doc- 
tor Wilson  had  done  to  Mr.  Wiley,  he  so  far  took  part 
with  the  latter,  though  a  murderer,  as  to  grant  him  a 
pardon. 

This  decision  of  his  excellency  w^as  very  different  from 
what  many  of  his  best  friends  expected.     And  when  it 
was  one  day  mentioned  to  him,  by  some  intimates,  at  his 
table,  he  made  as  I  have  been  told  the  following  remark. 
'^Matrimony^  gentlemen,  matrimony  is  every  thing.     '  Tis 
the  sacred  fountain  of  domestick  sweets,  ivhence  all  the 
tenderest  loves  and  charities  of  life  go  forth  to  hind  and 
hless  mankind.     'Tivas  the  first  sacrament  in  'paradise 
itself;  and  the  command  not  to  separate  soul  and  body  hy 
murder  is  still  not  so  ancient  as  that  which  forbids  to 
separate  man  and  wife  by  adultery.    And  though  no  man 
can  abhor  murder  and  murderers  more  heartily  than  I 
do,  yet  so  all  important  in  my  estimation,  is  the  purity  of 
the  marriage  bed,  that  I  shall,  probably,  never  refuse  a 
pardon  to  the  man  who  kills  the  villian  that  violates  it.''* 
Soon  as  the  good  governour  Basset  had  signed  his  par- 
don, Mr.  Wiley's  friends  bastened  to  the  dungeon  and 
brought  him   forth  with  demonstrations  of  great  joy,  as 
exulting  in  their  victory  over  the  friends  of  doctor  Wil- 
son.    But  alas!  all  their  generous   efforis  in  his  favour 
availed  him   nothing.     It  all   served  but  to  prove,  what 
to  a  heedless  world  has  been  proved  millions  of  times  be- 
fore, that — "the  mind  is  thje  man" — and  that  when  the 
soul  is  deeply  clouded  with  unrepented  guilt,  no  outward 
circumstances    however    bright  can   gild  the   prospect. 
This,  I  say,  was  sadly  seen  in  Mr.  Wiley's  case  now  be- 
fore us.     Though  the  governour  had  taken  the  halter 
from  his  neck,  and  bis  friends  had  hurried  him  in  tri- 
umph from  the  dungeoi! — though  the  sweet  air  of  hea- 
ven |iad  aga^in  visited  his  lungs,  and  the  day  with  all  its 


21 


splendours  had  bursicd  on  liis  senses,  yet  it  would  not  all 
do.  The  mark  of  the  accursed  Cain  still  stuck  to  his  lore- 
head — the  dark  unyielding  frown;  the  wild  suspecting 
eye,  and  settled  gloom  which  nothing  earthly  could  dis- 
pel. The  sun  can  dissolve  the  frosts  of  winter;  and  war- 
med by  his  beams,  the  darkest  caverns  of  earth  can  glit- 
ter with  living  diamonds;  but  alas!  no  scenery  of  nature 
can  cheer  the  murderer's  heart,  or  charm  that  worm 
which  knaws  his  troubled  conscience.  Hence  amidst 
those  bright  scenes  where  the  soul  of  innocence  Avould 
have  warbled  gay  as  the  lark  of  the  morning,  the  wretch- 
ed Mr.  Wiley  moved  along  sullen  and  silent  as  the  owl 
that  curses  the  day.  He  made  no  stop  in  the  streets; 
but  in  place  of  pausing  to  look  around  and  converse  with 
the  persons  and  prospects  he  had  so  long  been  severed 
from,  he  hurried  on  as  if  afraid  every  one  he  met  would 
*'slay  him.**  And  even  when  arrived  at  his  own  house,  he 
still  found  that  change  of  place  was  no  change  of  misery, 
except  for  the  worse,  for  it  was  observed  by  his  friends 
that  he  shewed  symptoms  of  strong  agitation  as  he  cast 
his  eyes  on  the  objects  around  him. 

"JFht/"  said  he,  "did  you  take  me  out  of  my  prison'? 
I  was  happy  there.  In  ray  dark  dungeon  1  saw  n-Jtliinj: 
to  torment  me.  But  here  every  thing  calls  to  n>y  mind 
what  I  could  wish  to  forget  forever.  I  can't  go  into  any 
part  of  my  house  but  it  brings  fresh  to  my  thoughts  the 
things  that  have  passed  there.  This  is  the  room  in  which 
tVancy  and  1  have  breakfasted  together  so  often  and  so 
happy!  and  that's  the  room  where  we  used  to  sit  in  ivin- 
ter.  0  how  many  bright  Jires  have  blazed  on  that  hearth! 
and  how  siveetly  did  they  sparkle,  as  side  by  side  or  she 
in  my  lap  we  used  to  sit  and  talk!  I  rvas  happy  then.  But 
now  I  shall  never  be  happy  any  more.  Jlnd  there  arc 
the  pictures  which  I  bought  with  such  pleasure  for  her! 
and  there  the  looking-glasses!  I  loved  her  so  I  wanted  to 
see  her  in  every  thing.** 

And  then  as  if  her  beauteous  and  beloved  image  with 
all  her  tendernesses  and  loves  for  years  had  rushed  at 
once  upon  his  soul,  he  would  clasp  and  wring  his  hands 
and  cry  out  most  bitterly — "O/i  my  happiness!  my  happi- 


22 


ness!  tis  all  gone  forever!^'  Then  going  on  with  his  speech 
he  would  point  and  say — "and  there's  the  room  where  I 
killed  doctor  Wilson.'  where  1  killed  the  man  I  lotted  most 
of  all.'  and  there's  the  mark  of  his  blood!  well  cursed 
mllian  you  deserved  it.'  and  you,  damned  strumpet.'  it  was 
you  that  brought  me  to  all  this;  you  and  your  sweet  doc- 
tor that  made  me  a  murderer.'  that  turned  my  light  into 
darkness,  and  my  sweetest  heaven  into  hell!  may  God's 
eternal  curse  overtake  you  both  for  it!  it  has  overtaken 
one;  and  the  other  shan't  run  long." 

'Twas  in  this  way  he  used  to  talk  to  himself,  with 
such  looks  and  tones  of  deep,  heart-rooted  anguish,  as 
filled  the  frightened  hearers  at  once  with  pity  and  horror. 
The  agony  of  his  mind,  from  dwelling  thus  constantly 
on  the  baseness  of  his  wife,  and  liis  murder  of  doctor 
Wilson,  rose  at  length  to  such  a  pitch  and  rendered  his 
life  so  insupportable,  that  he  came  to  the  resolution  to 
lay  it  down.  His  plan  for  doing  it  was  entirely  in  charac- 
of  a  murderer  turned  maniac.  He  furnished  himself 
with  a  brace  of  loaded  pistols,  and  travelled  all  the  way 
from  Lewistown  to  Philadelphia  in  quest  of  his  wife,  re- 
solved the  moment  he  got  into  her  company  to  blow  out 
her  brains  with  one  of  the  pistols,  and  then  his  own  with 
the  other.  But  it  was  not  permitted  him  to  indulge  so 
diabolical  a  pleasure.  For  though  he  soon  found  out 
where  she  was,  living  with  a  relation,-  and  came  every 
day  to  the  house,  trying  a  variety  of  bribes  and  strata- 
gems to  gain  admittance,  he  never  succeeded!  whether 
it  was  that  she  dreaded  him  as  an  injured  husband,  or 
detested  him  as  the  murderer  of  !ier  gallant,  is  uncertain. 
But  the  fact  is,  and  a  very  remarkable  one  too,  he  never 
got  sight  of  her.  Finding  that  he  could  obtain  no  op- 
portunity to  muiiler  his  wife,  he  returned  to  Lewistown. 
On  entering  his  house,  the  worm  that  never  dieth,  which 
he  carrieii  in  his  bosom,  appeared  to  be  stirred  up  to  ten- 
fold rage  and  gnawing — that  scene,  which  love  and  friend- 
ship had  so  long  made  his  heaven,  now  by  murder  and 
despair  changed  into  hell,  was  become  no  longer  suppor- 
table. ^^Well,"'  said  he  to  a  friend  who  came  to  see  him, 
"I'll  now  go  and  die  where  I  got  my  death's  wounds" 


23 

He  alluded  to  the  prison  in  whose  damp  dungeon  he 
had  contiiiclcd  the  consumption.  He  aeeordinj^ly  went 
to  the  jail,  and  in  spite  of  all  the  remonstrances  of  the 
jailor,  insisted  he  would  tro  and  lie  down  in  the  dunj^eon. 
His  friends  hearing  of  (his  strange  resolution  hastened 
to  his  sad  retreat,  and  plead  hard  with  him  to  go  and 
live  with  them.  But  all  in  vain.  He  heggcd  them  to 
leave  him,  declaring  at  the  same  time  that  his  existence 
was  a  eursCf  and  that  all  he  wanted  was  to  die.  He  did 
not  long  wait  for  the  accomplishment  of  his  wishes,  for 
after  lingering  about  three  weeks,  he  miserably  gave  up 
the  ghost;  leaving  his  body,  by  long  fasting,  reduced  to 
mere  skin  and  bone,  and  his  countenance  stamped  with 
all  the  indescribable  ghastliness  of  woe  and  horror. 

O  God!  how  terrible  are  thy  judgments  against  adul- 
tery! That  cursed  sin,  which  by  shedding  mill-dew  and 
blasting  on  the  fairest  blossoms  of  wedded  love,  can  thus 
arm  man  as  a  demon  against  man,  and  turn  our  houses 
into  hells  upon  the  earth!  AVbat  two  families  were  ever 
placed  by  smiling  heaven  in  circumstances  more  favour- 
able to  happiness  than  those  of  doctor  Wilson  and  3Ir. 
Wiley?  Both,  abounding  in  all  the  sweets  of  life— dwell- 
ing side  by  side  in  the  same  pleasant  village— and  daily 
running  into  each  other's  houses  with  all  i\\e  familiari- 
ty of  fondest  friends.  But  alas!  soon  as  the  guilty  com- 
merce commenced,  shyness  and  cold  dislike  appeared — 
and  then  dark  suspicion,  and  fire  eyed  fury  filled  these 
once  happy  families  with  tears  and  blood. 

Where  now  is  the  gay  Mr.  Wiley  that  dressed  so  neat 
and  walked  so  light,  with  health  and  joy  ever  smiling 
on  his  ruddy  countenance?  Lo!  there  lie  lies,  a  haggard 
corpse— wrapped  in  an  old  great  coat— with  matted  hair 
and  long  black  beard  deformed— his  shrivelled  lips  but 
half  cover  his  teeth,  still  hard  clenched  in  death— while 
his  ftice,  though  cold  as  the  earth  he  lies  on,  yet  retains 
the  dark  and  dismal  frown  of  the  wretched  spirit  which 
has  just  forsaken  it! 

And  where  is  the  elegant  doctor  Wilson— he  who 
shone  above  all  the  youth  of  Lewistown,  as  the  tall  cedar 
of  Lebanon  above  the  trees  of  the  forest?     Alas!  he  is 


24 


seen  no  more.  Adultery,  like  the  flash  of  vengeful  hea- 
ven, has  blasted  his  top,  and  dashed  all  his  branching 
honours  to  the  dust. 

Happy  had  the  cloud  bursted  upon  the  adulterer  and 
murderer  alone.  But  alaj!  many  guiltless  friends  are 
made  to  suffer  with  them.  Poor  Mrs.  Wilson  received 
a  shock  from  which  her  gentle  nature  is  never  to  reco- 
ver more.  Her  stately  dwelling,  so  long  the  abode  of 
gaiety  and  mirth,  is  now  doomed  to  lasting  solitude  and 
silence.  There,  shut  up  alone  with  her  orphans,  she 
wastes  her  days  and  nights  in  bitter  remembrance  of  the 
past.  No  bright-faced  husband,  will  ever  more  return  to 
gladden  her  heart — no  father  in  his  smiles  of  love  and 
presents  in  his  hands  to  rouse  his  little  nestlings,  and  fill 
the  house  with  noisy  delight.  Pale  in  the  tomb  of  the 
garden  he  lies;  his  fair  flowing  locks  are  burnt  with  the 
cruel  pistol,  and  the  bullet  of  the  assassin  is  still  cold  in 
his  brains.  The  tears  of  the  mother  never  cease:  and 
her  children  at  her  knees  with  mingling  tears,  often  ask 
— "when  will  our  father  return!" 

But  the  days  of  her  suffering  were  not  long!  An  ear- 
ly grave  received  the  broken  hearted  mourner;  and  her 
children  now  eat  bread  at  the  table  of  their  grand-fa- 
ther. 

I  have  been  told  that  at  the  time  doctor  Wilson  was 
murdered,  his  younger  brother  James  Wilson  was  living 
with  him,  and  preparing  himself  by  a  course  of  reading, 
for  the  practice  of  the  law.  The  horrid  murder  of  his 
brother,  and  its  dismal  consequences,  inspired  him  with 
such  a  detestation  of  sin,  that  he  instantly  abjured  the 
study  of  the  law.  To  be  wasting  his  life  and  exhaus- 
ting his  talents  in  righting  or  wronging  poor  mortals  in 
the  matter  of  a  little  gold  or  silver,  appeared  to  him  but 
as  ^'strenuous  idleness  "  in  comparison  of  the  glorious 
work  of  dissipating  the  clouds  of  moral  ignorance  and 
stopping  the  progress  of  sin  and  hell  in  the  world.  He 
applied  himself  at  once,  to  that  most  sublime  and  god- 
like of  all  studies  the  study  of  divinity,  and  is  now  the 
pastor  of  the  first  Presbyterian  church  in  Philadelphia. 
Sin  is  the  burthen  of  his  sermons.     To  convince   the 


25 


world  of  sin  and  its  fatal  consequences,  is  his  great  aim. 
To  aid  his  colourings,  tis  thought  he  soinetinics  revol- 
ves this  mournful  example  among  his  own  friends — a  be- 
loved brother  in  blood;  his  widow  and  oiyhans  in  leurs; 
a  poor  neighbour  in  an  nntimcly  grave;  and  his  icidow 
a  fugitive  in  the  earth.  Then,  fiUed  with  deepest  horror 
of  sin  and  pity  for  its  miserahh'.  victinis  he  pours  forth 
his  feelings  in  strains  of  an  impassioned  eloquence  that 
penetrates  all  hearts  and  dissolves  the  crowded  house  in 
tears. 

CASE  THE  SECOND. 

Mournful  storxj  of  yonvg  squire  Oneal  and  the  beautiful 
miss  Lestrange. 

In  the  neighhourhood  of  Wilmington,  North  Carolina, 
there  lived  a  rich  old  gentleman  whose  niime  Mas  Lcs- 
ti*ange.  His  riches  were  not  of  the  hereditary  and  ef- 
feminating sort;  they  were  the  hrave  and  healthy  oft- 
spring  of  his  own  virtues.  The  credit  which  his  hones- 
ty commanded,  was  doubled  by  his  ixdustrv,  and  tree- 
bled  by  his  prcdexcf:;  and  a  good  wife,  early  married, 
bestowed  a  fourfold  benediction  on  the  whole;  for  wed- 
ded to  her  he  liecame  wedden  to  his  home,  wedded  to  his 
business,  and,  of  course,  wedded  to  all 'those  good  habits 
which,  as  doctor  Franklin  says,  makes  a  ma7i'.s  way  to 
wealthy  just  as  easy  as  it  is  from  his  own  door  to  thcmarket. 

The  result  of  all  this  was,  Uuit  by  the  time  he  reached 
his  fiftieth  year,  he  found  that  the  poor  overseer's  staff 
with  which  lie  began  the  world,  had,  like  Aaron's  rod, 
swallowed  up  the  lands  and  negroes  and  Hocks  and  herds 
of  many  of  his  lazy,  dram  drinking,  gambling  neighbours. 
And  yet,  as  Pharaoh's  lean  kinc  after  swallowing  all  their 
fat  fellows,  did  not,  we  are  told,  appear  to  be  in  any  bet- 
ter plight  than  at  the  first;  so  neither,  by  (he  confession 
of  Mr.  Lestrange  himself,  did  all  this  well  won  weallh 
of  his  seem  to  make  him  any  happier  than  before. 

**J^o  my  friends^*  he  often  said  to  his  neighbours,  "/ 
am  not  happy  yet.     *Ti8  true  1  have  a  great  deal  of  mo- 
ney; ffty  times  as  much  as  I  ever  expected;  and  I  have 
C 


26' 

also  ail  excellent  ivlfe,  and  a  promising  soiif  and  ttvojinc 
girls  to  enjoy  it  tvith  we,  hut  still  it  wont  all  do.  In  spite 
of  all  mij  money  I  find  I  am  groiving  old  and  cra^y — 
life  is  losing  its  freshness — the  world  is  changing  around 
me — my  friends  are  dropping  into  the  grave^  and  Iknoiv 
not  how  soon  I  must  follow  them!  In  such  a  state  how 
can  I  he  /lappi/?  Xo,  IHlgo  to  the  bible  and  see  if  lean 
find  happiness  thcrej*^ 

Accordingly  in  his  fifty-third  year  he  took  to  his  bihle, 
and  read  it  over  with  great  care.  He  there  discovered 
the  reason  why  he  had  never  been  happy.  Formed  by 
the  all- benevolent  Creator  for  a  nobler  world,  his  desires 
and  capacities  are  far  too  large  for  this. 

In  the  best  state  of  things  here,  then,  they  must  still 
heave  the  sigh  of  disappointment;  and  that  sigh  must  be 
eternal,  until  they  fend  the  true  good,  which  is  no  other 
than  God.  He  found  in  his  bible  that  all  the  misery  of 
this  world  flows  from  our  leaving  this  supreme  good, 
the  only  cure  then  is  to  come  back.  Hence,  "my  son 
give  me  thy  hearty'*  is  the  whole  of  religion — and  it  is  the 
whole  of  religion,  because  it  is  the  whole  of  happiness. 
For  religion,  properly  defined,  is  only  the  art  or  happi- 
ness. With  an  honest  heart  he  set  himself  to  seek  that 
LOVE;  and  he  soon  found  it.  In  short,  he  became  a 
truly  devout  man;  lived  as  in  the  society  of  his  God; 
performed  every  duty  with  the  view  to  please  him;  and 
in  return  enjoyed  the  unspeakable  pleasures  which  spring 
from  so  exalted  a  friendship,  and  from  always  acting  un- 
der motives  so  generous  and  Godlike.  Thus  happy 
himself,  he  esrnestly  desired  the  happiness  of  others,  and 
particularly  of  his  own  family  and  neighbours. 

Taught  by  his  own  experience  that  true  happiness  is 
to  be  found  in  God  alone,  and  also  that  he  had  found  it 
by  reading  the  bible,  he  immediately  began  to  read  the 
bible  and  to  pray  in  his  family.  He  also  invited  the 
neighbouring  preachers,  who  were  principally  methodists* 
to  come  and  preach  at  his  house,  and  a  general  notifica- 
tion was  made  to  his  neighbours. 

A  sermon  at  the  house  of  the  wealthy  Mr.  Lestrange, 
was  a  matter  of  such  curiosity  that  none  could  resist  it. 


27 


And  not  only  the  poor  and  the  mean,  but  the  jlush  and 
the  fair  hastened  fo  <he  piraehing  with  as  much  eager, 
ness  as  they  had  ever  shewn  in  going  to  a  ball.  Not 
satisfied  with  having  sermons  onee  a  fortnight  at  his 
house,  he  would  often  have  with  him.  for  days  and  nights 
together,  large  eo  npanies  chielly  of  yoiiiig  |»ersons  who 
professed  religion.  For  while  he  delighted  (osee  youth  and 
beauty  employed  in  talking  of  heavenly  things,  and  singing 
the  praises  of  God,  he  also  rejoiced  in  sueh  persons  as 
the  best  companions  he  could  get  for  his  dear  children. 

It  would  have  seemed  grievous  if  this  good  man  after 
having  done  so  much  to  bring  other  families  to  God,  had 
leen  none  of  his  own  coming  also.  But  such  sorrow  was 
mercifully-  spared  him.  That  God.  who  will  not  long  be 
any  mane's  debtor,  soon  repaid  this  liberal  soul  with 
royal  interest.  His  wife,  like  favoured  Sarah,  travailed 
again  in  her  old  age,  with  the  new  birth  of  ilhine  lor-e. 
And  in  her  heaven-beaming  eyes,  her  happy  husband  read 
the  sweet  assurance  of  that  spirit  which  should  one  day 
renew  her  youth,  and  adorn  her  withered  cheeks  with  all 
the  bloom  of  immortality.  And  in  his  only  son,  George, 
as  also  in  his  two  daughters,  Matilda  and  Naiiey.  he  dis- 
covered, as  he  thought,  the  welcome  dawniiigs  of  that 
grace  which  would  cause  them  to  shine  as  **excdlcnt  ones 
of  the  earlh,  and  as  the  polished  corners  of  the  temple.^* 
And  to  crown  all  his  joys,  many  of  his  most  intimate  and 
valued  neighbours  appeared  to  take  great  delight  in  re- 
ligion. Among  these,  Avore  the  wealthy  and  elegant 
Messrs.  George  llouer  and  James  Oneale — and  particu- 
larly this  latter  gentleman,  who  is  soon  to  make  an  aw- 
ful figure  in  our  story.  Ueing  a  young  man  not  only  of 
fortune,  but  also  of  polished  manners  and  a  sprightly  turn, 
he  had  always  been  a  great  favourite  in  Lestrange  housej 
and  though  lately  married,  he  still  associated  with  them 
as  one  of  the  family. 

Here  now,  O  reader,  we  behold  before  us  a  rare  spec- 
tacle indeed — the  spectacle  of  a  wealthy  old  gentleman 
applying  a  portion  of  his  wealth  lo  ihc  most  noble  of  all 
uses.  We  behold  him  throwing  open  his  spacious  saloons 
and  drawing  rooms,  to  be  consecrated  by  the  preaching 


28 

of  the  everlasting  gospel,  and  to  be  perfumed  with  the 
breath  of  heaven-seeking  prajer  and  praise.  We  behold 
him  inviting  the  young  to  his  house  as  to  a  nursery  of 
their  infant  devotions;  himself  animating  them  to  perse- 
vere in  the  glorious  course;  listening  delighted  to  the 
praises  of  God  sounding  from  their  tender  lips;  and 
marking  with  a  parent's  joys,  the  sweetness  of  their 
speech  and  looks  to  one  another. 

O  who  can  think  of  this  without  secretly  wishing  his 
lot 'had  been  cast  in  such  pleasant  places — in  a  situation 
so  favourable  to  the  highest  improvements  of  the  heart? 

Well,  Mr.  Oneale's  lot  was  cast  in  such  pleasant  places, 
and  in  a  situation  so  favourable  to  highest  virtue  and 
happiness.  He  was  young,  handsome,  Mealiiky — married 
to  a  beautiful  and  accomplished  woman — and,  which  is 
better  still,  he  professed  himself  a  convert!  and  in  that 
high  character  was  confided  in  by  good  old  Mr.  Lestrange 
as  a  spiritual  son,  and  caressed  by  George  and  his  sis- 
ters, as  a  hrothcr.  What  shame!  what  pity!  what  ever- 
lasting grief,  that  such  goodly  opportunities  of  happiness 
should  have  been  lost  forever,  through  one  brutalizing, 
^dap  ning  sin — adultery! 

O  Joseph!  Joseph!  thou  virtuous  son  of  Israel!  who 
can  think  of  thy  never  dying  fame  without  mourning  the 
neglect  of  pious  educulion!  thy  shepJierd  father  taught 
thee  to  *'remcmhcr  thy  creator  in  the  days  of  thy  youth:''* 
thus  early  accustomed  to  the  noblest  pleasures,  thoudid'st 
ift^tiik  the  slippery  paths  of  youth  v.  illi  thoughts  pure  as  the 
opening  flowers,  and  gay  as  the  birds  of  the  morning.  But 
alas!  poor  Mr.  Oneale  had  no  pious  Jacob  to  teach  his 
*\*young  ideas  how  to  shoot."  He  never  received  the  high 
and  godlike  education  of  Joseph.  His  worldly-minded  fa- 
father  never  aimed  at  any  thing  higher  or  better  for  his 
son,  than  Avhat  he  should  e«f,  and  drink,  and  wear.  Thus 
brought  up  in  ignoralice  of  thosefeasts  of  knowledge  and 
Jlows  of  holy  loves,  which  are  the  true  happiness  of  the 
mind;  the  young  man  could  no  other  than  turn  to  the  body; 
and  seek  his  happiness  in  tlie  concupiscences  of  the  flesh, 
the  chief  among  which*  is  the  appetite  for  the  sex. 

This  was  sadly  exemplyfied  in  the  case  of  young  Mr. 
Oneale,     He  had  married  an  elegant  woman;  but  not 


29 


bringing  to  her  arms  thut  first  ul'  all  earthly  lelicities,  a 
pure  heart,  he  couhl  not  follow  that  sweet  counsel  of  So- 
lomon,  "my  son,  RKJOICK  IN   THE  AVIFE  OF  THY  YOUTH, 

and  let  her  be  as  the  lorin;;:  fair  and  pleasant  roe — let 
hei'  breasts  satisfy  thee  at  all  times;  and  be  thou  ravished 
ahvays  with  her  (ore." 

This  sweet  counsel,  which,  if  duly  attended  to,  would 
have  perpetuated  a  paradise  in.  his  family  was  utterly  de- 
feated by  that  detestihie  jjpfif^for  variety  which  had 
sprung  from  the  boundlessness  of  his  indulg«;nces. 

How  soon  he  began  to  play  truiint  from  his  lady's  em- 
braces, we  shall,  perhaps,  never  know.  But  it  was  not  more 
than  eighteen  months  from  his  wedding-day  before  he  se- 
duced and  ruined  the  beautiful  but  frail  Miss  Lestrange. 

This  young  lady  was  just  in  the  full,  ripe  state  of 
youthful  bloom  and  beauly;  about  eighteen  years  of  age; 
tall  and  florid;  with  a  countenance  open  and  inviting; 
and  manners  uncommonly  gay.  The  wanton  eye  of  Mr. 
Oneale  had  often  wandered  over  her  fine  form  with  ideas 
of  the  grossest  sensuality;  and  he  had  often  assailed  her 
virtue  by  every  artifice  that  could  be  employed  without 
alarming  her  suspicion  or  exciting  her  disgust.  Under 
the  cloak  of  friendship  and  colour  of  gallantry,  he  had  ex- 
erted the  keen  lust-kindling  glance;  the  fcly  double  enten- 
dre; the  deep  impassioned  sigh;  and  a  thousand  other  wiles 
to  explore  her  heart  and  find,  or  fan  a  spark  that  might  be 
inflamed  to  his  laseivious  wishes.  But  h^  sense  of  natu- 
ral modesty,  strengthened  by  education,  enabled  Miss  Les- 
trange either  not  to  notice  or  to  repel  such  approaches. 

The  prostration  of  her  virtue,  and  her  entire  subjec- 
tion to  his  brutal  appetites  was  at  last,  however,  accom- 
plished, and  by  means  which  one  would  suppose  that 
hardly  Saran  himself  could  ever  have  counted  on. 

Among  the  many  excellent  methodist  divines  who  from 
time  to  time  preached  at  her  father's  house,  was  a  gen- 
tleman by  the  name  of  Everitt.  Under  his  preaching, 
which  was  uncommonly  luminous  and  penetrating,  jMiss 
Lestrange  Mas  struck  witli  a  most  alarming  sense  of  the 
depravity  of  her  heart,  her  utter  unacquaintedness  with 
God,  and  her  unpreparedness  to  die!  As  life  was  uncer- 


80 

taint  and  death  very  sure,  should  the  summons  overtake 
her  before  she  got  prepared,  what  would  become  of  her! 
This  dreadful  idea  haunted  her  day  and  night.  She 
could  neither  eat,  drink,  nor  sleep  for  terror.  *"  Often 
have  I,"  as  she  repeatedly  declared  afterwards,  **caught 
myself  falling  into  sleepf  and  started  with  the  ghastly  re- 
collection  that  if  I  died  in  my  sleep  I  might  awake  in  hell,** 
In  this  truly  wretched  condition  she  continued  several 
weeks.  At  length  a  pjj^cher  by  the  name  of  Garretson 
came  to  her  father's.  The  eloquence  of  this  gentlemen 
was  of  a  strain  entirely  different  from  that  of  Mr.  Everitt. 
The  one  was  the  thunder  of  law-vengeance  against  the 
wicked;  the  other  was  the  soft  whisper  of  gospel  mercy 
to  the  penitent.     "0  ye  contrite  ones,*^  he  would  say, 

;  *'ye  broken  hearted  mourners,  how  long  will  ye  thrust  away 
comfort  from  your  own  souls,  through  your  unworthy 

■  .,;  thoughts  of  God"!  O  be  persuaded  that  God  is  LOVE; 

-rlNFIMTK,   UNCHANGEABLE,  and  ETERNAL  LOVE.    Having 

created  you  for  his  own  glory — for  his  own  glory  in  your 
eternal  happiness,  he  will  never  be  robbed  of  that  glory 
but  through  your  own  obstinate  and  incorrigible  impeni- 
tence. Only  repent  and  believe  in  the  Medeemer/  and  fol- 
lo^M  him  in  the  new  way  of  holiness  and  love  and  all 
shall  be  well.  The  sting  of  death  shall  be  drawn,  and 
hell  itself  defeated  of  her  victory.  For  then  though  your 
sins  /mrc  been  as  scai'let,  they  shall  be  white  as  snow; 
though  red  as  crimson,  they  shall  be  as  wool.** 
.  Instantly  as  the  man  of  God  spoke  these  words,  the 
clouds  of  horrour  were  blown  away  from  the  mind  of 
Miss  Lestrange,  and  floods  of  light  and  joy  burst  in  upon 
her  delighted  senses.  She  leaped,  she  danced,  and  clap- 
ing  her  hands,  she  shouted  again  and  again,  ^'^ glory!  glo- 
ry! glory!**  In  this  transport  the  shy  shrinking  spirit  of 
female  delicacy  seemed  to  have  been  utterly  lost.  She 
appeared  to  have  thought  of  nothing  but  to  tell  her 
fi'iends  of  the  great  change  that  had  passed  in  her  heart, 
and  to  make  tliem  partakers  in  her  joy. 

With  her  fine  auburn  tresses  floating  down  her  snowy 
bosom  and  shoulders,  and  darting  her  eyes  eagerly  around 
she  exclaimed  "0  where*.s  my  mother!  my  dear,  dear  mo- 


31 

ther/**  The  moment  of  discovering  ber  she  flew  into  hci* 
lap;  she'  threw  iier  arms  around  her  neck:  and  pressing 
her  in  a  strong  embrace,  cried  out — "0  my  mother, 
praise  God.'  jtrUise  God  for  me!  I  am  convertedl^^  giving 
her  mother,  as  she  said  this,  such  looks  as  if  her  whoie 
soul  was  llowing  out  in  streams  of  tederness  and  love; 
crying  and  laughing,  by  fits  all  tbe  time.  And  then,  as 
if  not  yet  satisfied  with  telling  Iht  happiness  to  her  mo- 
ther alone,  she  sprang  from  her  arms  and  ran  about  in 
search  of  some  other  dear  relative,  her  father,  her  bro- 
ther George,  her  sister  Nancy,  and  with  them  acted 
over  again  the  same  sconce  of  convulsive  joy;  her  breasts 
heaving  and  panting — her  colour  alternately  coming  and 
going,  now  crimsoned  with  joy  and  delight,  and  now  pale 
and  exhausted  as  if  near  overcome  with  (etigue. 

If  in  this  holy  exstacy  she  had  never  gone  begond  the 
circle  of  her  relatives,  and  especially  those  of  her  own 
sex,  we  should  never  perhaps  have  heard  the  name  of 
Miss  Lestrange  coupled  with  that  of  infamy.  But  un- 
fortunately for  this  young  creature,  some  demon,  the 
enemy  of  female  innocence,  reminded  her  of  Mr.  Onealo. 
The  reader  has  been  told  tb'»t  some  time  before  tins, 
Mr.  Oneale  had  become,  or  had  affected  to  become  n  ebris- 
tiau.  In  this  high  character  he  was  regarded  as  a  son 
by  good  old  Mr.  Lestrange,  and  as  a  brother  by  George 
and  his  sisters.  Soon  therefore  as  the  image  of  Mr, 
Oneale  was  presented  to  her  thoughts,  sbe  eagerly  ex- 
claimed ^Uchere  is  brother  Oneale!  0  where  is  brother 
Oneale!  and  when  sbe  had  found  bim  sbe  ran  and  threw  ber 
arms  around  bis  neck,  crying  out  "0  Itrother  Oneale,  thank 
God  with  me!  I  am  happy!  I  am  happy!  01  am  so  happy!** 

Many  of  her  best  friends,  of  botli  sexes,  were  exceed- 
ingly shocked  at  this  behaviour  of  Miss  Lestrange.  But 
she,  poor  girl!  did  it,  as  would  appear,  in  her  simplicity, 
as  thinking  him  a  dear  brotlier  indeed  who  would  con- 
gratulate her  on  her  felicity.  But  alas!  Mr.  Oneale  was 
not  that  spiritual  brother  which  this  fair  saint  supposed; 
and  her  virgin  caresses  instead  of  exciting  tbe  pure  trans- 
ports of  angelick  sympathy,  only  served  to  kindle  higber 
the  fever  of  brutal  passion.     To  see  this  beautiful  girl, 


32 

in  whose  blooming  charms  he  had  so  often  sought  in  vain 
to  revel,  now  no  longer  occupying  the  high  ground  of  fe- 
male pride  and  reserve,  but  relaxed  into  all  the  invi- 
ting familiarities  of  tumultuous  joy — passing  through 
all  the  changes  of  impassioned  delight,  and  in  every 
change  resistlessly  enchantingj  now  the  lilly,  now  the 
rose  prevailing  in  her  joy  flushed  cheek — her  eyes  meet- 
ing his  in  streams  of  unimaginable  tenderness;  while, 
with  her  lovely  head  reclined  on  his  bosom  and  fondly 
pressing  him  to  her  swelling  breasts,  in  sweetest  accents 
she  called  him  '^brother/  dear  brother  Onealef 

In  such  a  situation,  what  wonder  that  his  unhallowed 
desires  should  have  been  kindled  into  a  fever  mortal  to 
human  virtue!  what  wonder  that  in  this  delirium  of  ra- 
ging blood  and  spirits  he  should  have  forgotten  what  he 
owed  to  his  aged  friend;  and  the  sacred  honour  of  his 
darling  daughter — and  requiting  the  warm  and  tender 
virgin  with  all  the  fatal  artillery  of  sighs  and  looks,  and 
fond  embraces  he  should  in  some  weak,  unguarded  mo- 
ment have  obtained  of  her  the  full  fruition  of  all  his  de- 
sires! in  fact  he  did  obtain — and  with  sorrow  unutterable 
we  are  constrained  to  say  that  Miss  Lestrange,  the  amia- 
ble, the  beautiful,  the  all  accomplished  Miss  Lestrange 
was  ruined!  she  was  ruined  by  a  villian  under  the  sacred 
garb  of  religion.  Oh!  who  without  a  bleeding  heart,  can 
think  of  this  poor  girl  and  her  situation  when,  soon  as 
the  fatal  deed  was  done,  and  Mr.  Oneale  retired,  she  was 
left  to  reflect  on  her  folly  and  its  dismal  consequences! 
See,  where  she  sits,  like  one  near  reft  of  sense  by  some 
sudden  shock  of  trouble  too  great  tp  bear.  Her  thoughts 
are  flying  over  the  past,  the  present,  and  the  future,  and 
in  all  their  wretched  range  they  meet  nothing  but  shame, 
BEMOBSE,  and  distraction.  Oh  God!  that  she — in 
the  fair  morning  of  life;  in  the  very  bloom  and  freshness 
of  her  charms;  with  every  joy  before  her  that  youth  and 
BEAUTY  could  ask — tides  of  wealth;  crowds  of  lovers; 
smiling  friends;  doating  parents;  and,  beyond  all  this,  the 
dawning  hope  of  still  nobler  friends  and  joys  in  heaven 
— that  in  a  state  so  enviable,  so  happy  above  millions, 
she  should  not  have  maintained  her  innocence  and  bliss, 


38 

but  have  lost  all!  by  one  act,  one  most  detestable  and  de- 
tested act,  sbould  bave  lost  all! — and  plunged  bersell"  in- 
to such  an  abyss  of  inlauiy  and  woe.  Ob  miserable! 
wbitber  sball  sbe  turn  her  soul  from  sucb  piercing,  such 
agonising  rellections!  is  there  no  ubancc  for  escape?  no 
ray  of  hope  (bat  (lungs  may  be  better  yet?  no,  none,  none, 
none;  no  change  but  for  infinitely  worse.  Ucv  fncnd/ 
her  spiritual  friend,  her  brothek — cursed  be  his  name! 
her  lips  abhor  to  sound  itl  has  rendered  her  not  only  an 
object  of  eternal  loathing  to  herself;  but  will  soon  hold 
her  up  an  object  of  loathing  and  contempt  to  the  whole 
world!  yet  a  little  wbile  and  the  natural  consequences 
of  her  folly  must  appear!  and  then,  great  God!  what  as- 
tonishment, what  horror  must  seize  on  all  who  knew  her! 

What  will  her  lovers,  they  who  used  so  to  crowd 
around  her  chariot,  and  so  press  on  her  whenever  she 
appeared  in  publick,  striving  with  one  another  for  her 
attention,  what  will  they  say,  when  they  hear  tliat  she 
whom  they  adored  as  an  angel  is  become  an  harlot!  And 
oh!  how  must  her  name,  once  so  honoured  so  beloved,  be 
now  pronounced  with  pity  or  bandied  about  with  scoffs 
and  curses  of  the  whole  country!  and  how  shall  she  ever 
answer  to  her  owif  sex,  for  the  cruel  suspicions  which 
her  example  will  throw  upon  them  all?  what  youth  will 
now  ever  think  of  marrifing^  "what  hope  is  there,"  he 
will  say,  **of  marrying  a  virgin  since  Miss  Lestrange 
has  turned  out  a  prostitute?" 

And  what  shall  she  answer  to  herself  for  this  cruel 
extinction  of  all  her  own  happiness  and  glory?  Formerly 
wben  she  entered  the  church  or  the  ball-room  she  en- 
tered in  all  the  happy  sprightliness  of  innocence,  llcr 
cheeks  were  all  freshness;  her  eyes  all  animation'  and 
the  air  of  pleasure  brightening  on  every  face  proclaimed 
her  more  than  welcome.  But  now  alas!  she  must  visit 
these  places  no  more!  Like  the  owl  to  the  birds  of  the 
morning,  her  appearance  would  give  a  shook  to  every 
company;  and  the  reddening  cheeks,  the  silent  tears,  or 
the  rude  titters,  of  the  whispering  gazers  would  give  the 
mortifying  signal  to  retire. 
F 


34 


And,  oh  hoi'i'ible!  what  shall  she  auswer  to  her  owh 
FAMILY,  to  each  member  of  that  dear  circle  which,  close 
and  warua  as  the  fibres  of  her  own  heart,,  made  up  all 
her  life  and  joy!  What  shall  she  say  to  her  brother — 
her  only  brother —  he  who  always  doated  on  her  with 
more  than  a  lover's  fondness.  Alas!  how  can  he  sustain 
the  dismal  news!  She  sees  the  deadly  paleness  of  his 
cheeks — she  hears,  from  his  retired  chamber,  his  bitter 
cries  bewailing  his  poor  ruined  Matilda. 

And  what  shall  she  answer  to  her  sister  Nancy — her 
only  sister — she  whose  very  life  was  ever  bound  up  in 
her's — who  was  wont  to  watch  by  her  bed  side  all  night 
in  tears  if  she  had  but  a  head-ache!  And  shall  this  ten- 
der sister  be  doomed,  for  her  detested  crime,  to  waste 
her  days  in  solitude  and  tears;  or  yield  her  gentle  life 
the  early  prey  of  heart-consuming  sorrow? 

And  her  parents!  O  God,  what  has  she  done!  her 
aged,  venerable  parents,  what  will  become  of  tliem, — 
Bowed  down,  as  they  are,  with  years  and  infirmities — 
tottering  on  the  brink  of  eternity — held  back  to  life,  only 
by  the  ties  of  love  to  their  children,  and  most  of  all  for 
her,  their  first,  their  favourite  daughter;  how  suddenly 
must  they  now  sink  under  the  deadly  blow  inflicted  by 
her  dishonour!  Often,  with  tears  had  she  looked  forward 
to  the  sad  hour  of  separation;  but  still  found  comfort  in 
the  sweet  idea  that  their  departure  would  be  in  peace, 
and  that  the  last  beam  from  their  closing  eyes,  fixed  on 
her's  would  be  bright  with  love  and  hope,  triumphant 
over  death.  But  alas!  tlHj,t  dear  idea  so  fondly  feasted 
on  is,  now,  no  more! 

Their  departure  is  not  to  he  in  peace — nor  will  the  last 
beam  from  their  eyes,  shine  on  her's  ivith  love  and  joy  tri- 
umphant. Oh  horrible  reverse! — their  dying  pillows 
must  be  torn  with  thorns  of  keenest  anguish;  and  their 
closing  eyes  be  drenched  with  bitterest  sorrows!  Oh  that 
she  could  die:  and  not  live  to  behold  the  great  evil  that 
is  ctnuing  upon  them! — Well  the  Avay  to  death  is  easy — 
a  viiii  of  laudanum — a  penknife — or  even  her  girdle  will 
do  ibe  deed.  But  oh!  that  dismal  gulph  beyond  the 
grave!  that  "death  that  never  dies!  h^r  soul  recoils 


35 

with  terror  at  the  thought;  and  she  consents  rather  to 
bear  "t/ie  ills  she  siijfers  Ihanjlij  lo  others  which  uhc 
knows  not  ofj"  Oh  woful  statQ  that  she  is  in!  "The 
wa^s  of  sin  is  rfcat/r,"  and  yet  she  cannot  die!  She  has 
sinned;  yes,  the  most  accursed  of  all  sins,  and  yet  th« 
sad  rcfu{j;e  of  the  grave  is  denied  her! 

Live  then  she  must.  Live  to  see  her  father's  house, 
so  long  the  crowded  scat  of  elegant  company  and  joys, 
desolate  and  forsaken — live  to  see  her  lirother  and  sister, 
once  so  guy  and  caressed,  shunning  society  and  hiding 
their  blushing  faces  at  home.'  live  to  see  her  aged  parents 
wringing  tlieir  withered  hands  in  hopeless  despair — live 
to  hear  their  feeble  cries,  imploring  mercy  on  their  poor 
ruined  child — live  to  behold  the  keen  anguish  consuming 
their  scanty  spirits,  and  weighing  down  their  grey  locks 
"with  sorrow  to  the  grave"  and  all  these  evils  brought 
upon  them  by  her — by  her,  their  favourite  child!  whom 
they  had  so  fondly  *^cloathed  in  scarlet,  ivith  ornaments 
of  gold  upon  her  apparel"  and  had  feasted  on  dainties, 
and  educated  in  all  the  accomplishments  of  a  princess!! 

Such  were  the  thoughts  which  in  quick  succession 
darted  through  the  soul  of  Miss  Lestrange,  inflicting 
«ueh  anguish  that  nothing  but  the  dread  of  awful  ruTU-r 
RiTY  restrained  her  from  self  murder.' 

In  the  midst  of  these  dismal  reflections,  the  voice  of 
her  brother,  at  the  yard  gate,  calling  the  ostler,  suddenly 
saluted  her  ear.  George  and  his  sister  Nancy  had,  the 
afternoon  before,  road  over  to  Mrs.  I  loners  to  tea.  Soon 
after  tlieir  arrival,  a  servant  from  Mr.  Sanson's  arrived 
with  tickets  of  invitation  to  the  Miss  Houers  to  the  wed- 
ding of  his  daughter,  a  beautiful  girl  who  was  to  be 
married  to  a  captain  Gale  the  next  week. 

lie  also  had  tickets  for  the  Miss  Lestranges  and 
George,  who  were  cousins  to  Miss  Sanson. 

When  tea  was  over,  (Jeorge  and  Nancy  wished  te  re- 
turn; but  a  heavy  shower  coming  on,  Mrs.  Iloucr  insis- 
ted they  should  stay  all  night;  which  was  very  much 
against  their  inclinations,  for  they  were  not  only  hap- 
pier at  home  than  any  where  else,  but  they  were  very 
impatient  to  bear  the  news  of  the  w  edding  to   Matilda. 


36 


In  the  morniog,  howevei*,  by  way  of  surprising  the  fa- 
mily, they  started  by  times  to  return  to  breakfast. 

On  galloping  up  to  the  gate  with  his  sister,  George 
called  for  the  ostler.  The  voice  of  her  brother,  hitherto 
'so  musical,  now  served  but  to  renew  her  anguish.  In  an 
instant  George  and  Nanoy  were  up  the  steps,  and  on  en- 
tering the  saloon,  both  their  voices  were  heard  at  once 
eagerly  asking  the  servants,  *'how  is  pa?  how  is  ma? 
where  is  sister  Matilda'^**  The  wretched  Matilda  heard 
this,  as  also  the  sound  of  their  steps  running  up  to  her 
chamber,  and  shuddered.' 

Oh!  thou  execrable  gttilt!  which  can  thus  diffuse 
the  taint  of  hell  through  the  heart  and  all  its  feelings. 
Soon  as  our  first  mother,  all  accomplished  Eve,  became 
guilty,  the  object  of  all  joy  was  turned,  as  we  read,  into 
the  object  of  unuterable  dread. — *'And  when  she  hetird 
the  Toice  of  the  Lord  God  walking  in  the  garden  in  the  cool 
of  the  e^iening.  she  fed  and  hid.  hersdf!"  And  behold 
here  her  daughter,  after  a  thousand  generations,  soon  as 
she  becomes  guilty  dreads  the  voice  of  her  own  brother 
and  sista*,  whom,  till  this  fatal  deed,  it  was  her  lieaven 
to  behold,  especially  returning  from  a  short  absence,  and 
with  agreeable  news. 

*'Shanie!  shame!  sister  Matty,  Mhat  not  out  of  your 
chamber  yet;  and  her  have  we  come  five  miles  ali-ead^ !" 
Thus  cried  George  and  Nancy  at  once,  as  they  entered 
her  chamber,  all  impatient  to  see  her,  and  to  tell  of  the 
wedding  they  were  all  invited  to  next  week. 

This  sprightly  salutation  gave  lier  a  momentary  ani- 
mation, Avhich  together  with  the  complete  occupation  of 
their  thoughts  to  tell  her  of  the  wedding  caused  them  at 
first  to  overlook  her  altered  appearance  and  manners. 
But  soon  as  Nancy  cried  out  **what  do  you  think,  sister, 
what  do  you  think.  Cousin  Kiiiy  Sanson  is  to  be  mar- 
ried next  Thursday!  and  here  are  our  liekcls  to  the  wed- 
dingP'  I  say  soon  as  these  words  reached  the  ear  of  Ma- 
tilda, something  was  heard  to  whisper,  *'i/es  the  innocent 
can  marry,  but  you  have  lost  your  innocence.  And  now 
with  all  your  riches,  your  accomplishments  and  beauty, 
you  must  live  and  die  neglected"    Instantly  in  dazzling 


37 

coLoiurSf  uH  the  glory  ^vhicb  she  liatl  lost  by  her  i'oUy, 
ilushed  upon  her  soul  with  u  deadly,  heart-sickeiiiiig  ef- 
fect, that  turned  her  cheeks  pale  and  haggard,  as  though 
the  dagger  of  death  had  been  plunged  into  her  bosom. 

**High!  ivhaVa  the  mailer  sister,*'  said  the  gentle-spir- 
ite<l  Nancy,  "(/*  I  had  llion^hl  this  unvs  uwnld  have  made 
yoJ*  uneamj^  indeed,  indeed  1  would  nol  hare  mentioned  i/." 
Here  George,  wishing  to  rally  her  spirits,  cried  out, 
<<vrliy,  bless  us  all,  Matilda!  what  can  be  the  matter?  one 
would  suppose  from  your  looks,  that  you  were  dying  iu 
lore  of  captain  Gale  yourself;  you  seem  so  troubled  at 
hearing  that  he  is  to  be  married  to  cousin  Kitty.  And 
I  am  suit*,  my  dear  sister,  your  advantages  give  you  a 
title  to  a  lover  far  above  captain  Gale,  though  he  is  aa 
elegant  fellow  too. 

The  wretched  Matilda  could  not  answer  but  with  her 
tears.  The  sight  of  Matilda  as  she  sat  crying;  soon  over- 
came the  soft  hearted  Nancy,  and  melted  her  into  tears 
also. 

"Ofc  mif  God,*'  exclaimed  George,  almost  crying  him- 
self, *^what  a  scene  of  vanily  this  life  is!  Here  have  ♦V«n- 
cy  and  myself  rode  Jive  miles,  post  haste,  this  morniv;^,  to 
brin^  you  an  ini'itatiofi  to  a  great  wedding,  u-hich  we 
thought  liould  have  jmt  you  into  Jine  spirits;  and  behold 
it  has  set  you  a  crying.' — But  there's  our  father's  bell  to 
prayers,"  continued  George,  "so  come  my  dear  sisters7vipr 
your  ajes,  and  hi  us  go  doivn  to  our  devotions;  1  hoju 
they  will  raise  our  spirits." 

Nancy,  drying  her  tears,  gotup;  but  Matilda  still  weep- 
ing, desired  tieorge  to  give  her  respects  to  her  father, 
and  inform  him  that  she  was  too  unwell  to  come  down. 
Soon  as  prayers  were  over,  her  father  and  mother,  who 
idolized  Matilda,  hobbled  up  the  stairs  together  to  see 
her.  If  she  was  terrified  at  their  reproach,  they  were 
not  less  shocked  at  her  appearance.  The  truth  is,  a  w  hole 
night's  loss  of  sweet  sleep,  and  of  innocence  still  sweeter 
than  sleep,  had  produced  a  dreadful  effect  on  her  appear- 
ance, llcr  eyes  red  with  weeping  bad  lost  their  fine 
lustre,  castiug  a   faint,  and  pity-imploring   expression, 


while  her  cheeks,  sensibly  emaciated,  wore  a  dull  and 
melancholy  sallow. 

The  strong  sympathy  of  these  tender  parents,  with 
their  disconsolate  daughter,  so  affected  her  enfeebled 
nerves,  that  she  turned  her  face  aside  and  bursted  into  a 
fit  of  crying.  A  favourite  child  and  that  chWd  a  daugh> 
ter,  in  such  distress,  was  an  affecting  sight.  With  cheeks 
swollen  with  grief  they  hastened  to  her  bed  side.  Her 
father  in  particular,  placing  himself  by  her  on  the  bed 
where  she  sat  took  her  in  his  arms,  and  pressing  her  to 
his  bosom,  tenderly  asked  the  cause  of  her  sorrows.  Her 
tears  flowed  afresh,  but  she  returned  him  no  answer.  If 
he  was  surprised  at  this  part  of  her  behaviour,  he  was 
still  more  hurt  that  she  kept  her  eyes  turned  from  hira, 
aud  shewed  a  strange  avevsl  m  from  his  embraces! 

Such  unnatural  disrespect  pained  him  the  more  griev- 
ously, because  so  very  different  from  all  the  past.  In 
every  former  case  of  her  sit'kness  or  sadness,  his  lap  had 
ever  appeared  to  be  the  refuge  and  cure  of  both.  There, 
with  her  arms  around  his  neck,  and  her  cheeks  pressed 
to  his,  she  would  sit  and  sigh,  and  shed  her  tears  and 
sorrows  into  his  beloved  bosom.  But  now,  she  acts  as 
though  she  would  avoid  him — her  eyes  do  not  seek  his 
— she  declines  his  endearments,  and  <o  his  tenderest  en- 
qi'.iries  ivto  the  cause  of  her  unltappiness  she  is  either 
sullenly  silent,  or  coldly  answers  that  "s/je  is  not  well.'" 
After  suffering  much  mortification,  which  was  the  more 
insupportable*  because  so  unusual,  and  (he  servants  re- 
peatedly bringing  word  that  breakfast  was  waiting,  the 
good  old  gentleman,  deeply  sighing  turned  away,  and  with 
a  sorrow  fill  heart  hobbled  down  stairs.  George,  equally 
afflicted,  accompanied  his  father;  but  her  mother  and 
sister  Nancy,  too  wretched  to  think  of  eating,  stayed 
with  Matilda. 

Thus,  through  this  one  accursed  sin,  death  came  upon 
this  tender  parent  and  his  family,  I  mean  the  death  of 
their  happiness;  for  never  from  that  fatal  morning,  did 
they  recover  that,  comparatively^  blissful  state,  wherein 
they  had  lived  so^  many  years.  So  completely  were  they 
all  wrapped  up  in  Matilda,  that  they  could  never  think 


f«  39 

•f  being  happy  while  she  was  wretched.  And  every  day 
seemed  to  bring  with  it  fresli  food  for  her  aflliction  to 
feed  on. 

The  deep  gloom  of  the  fumily  broke  up  ail  preaching 
at  that  honsc — it  broke  u\i  the  happy  little  religious 
meetings  of  the  young  people — it  chased  away  most  of 
the  gay  visitants  that  used  to  enliven  the  family — and 
among  those  who  visited  them  no  more  was  Mr.  Oneale. 
Having  ruined  poor  Matilda,  his  love  as  he  called  it, 
was  turned  into  hatred  and  contempt — and  besides,  he 
could  not  bear  to  look  in  the  face  a  family,  whose  gene- 
rosity he  had  so  basely  requited,  and  whose  vengeance 
he  so  justly  dreaded. 

But  if  this  poor  guilty  creature  had  been  made  so 
wretched,  only  at  the  idea  of  what  might  be  the  conse- 
quences of  her  criminal  commerce  with  Mr.  Oneale, 
what  were  her  sufferings  when  she  discovered  that  her 
terrors  had  been  too  well  founded! — when  she  felt  that 
she  was  with  child  hy  him.' 

In  a  creature  so  feeble  and  delicate  both  in  mind  and 
body,  as  is  a  young  female,  the  symptoms  of  conception 
often  excite  terrors  which  even  innocence  itself  can 
hardly  sustain.  Even  the  happy  FAIR  ONE  who  in  the 
presence  of  approving  parents  and  friends,  gives  herself, 
at  the'iHOLY  ALTAR,  to  the  youth  of  her  affections:  even 
ghe  when  suddenly  seized  with  (he  heart  sickening  qualms 
and  tremors,  which  wedded  love  is  heir  to,  is  often  sadly- 
alarmed;  yes,  though  she  sees  on  all  sides,  a  host  of 
richest  consolations — though  she  reads  in  her  father's 
eyes,  the  tenderest  affection  mingled  with  deepest  res- 
pect— though  she  can  see  in  her  bustling  mother,  the 
half  smothered  smile  at  thought  of  the  pratling  grand- 
child that  she  is  soon  to  dandle  on  her  withered  knees — 
though  she  finds  herself  in  the  dear  arms  of  a  husband, 
a*  once  the  loving  and  beloved  cause  of  all  her  alarms — 
and  though  in  the  eye  of  thought,  she  sees  alrea<ly  at  her 
breast  the  cheruh-boy,  sweet  image  of  his  father,  with 
rosy  lingers  pressing  the  polished  orb,  as  with  laughing 
eye  fixed  on  hcr's,  he  swills  the  milky  stream — yet.  uot- 
w  tthstanding  ail  these  precious  aids  of  innocence  and  love. 


40 

slie  still  has  her  terrors,  and  sometimes  even  to  tears  and 
fainting;  then,  oh  God,  what  must  the  wretched  Miss 
Lestrange  have  suffered,  when  she  felt  in  her  womh  the 
first  leapings  of  that  dreaded  infant — that  living  legacy 
of  an  accursed  villain — that  child  of  shame  and  sorrow 
that  is  coming  to  expose  her  secret  sins — to  blast  the 
glory  of  her  name — and  to  break  her  parents'  hearts! 

Like  one  on  whoso  frightened  senses  a  thousand  spec- 
tres had  bursted  at  once,  in  all  the  terrors  of  the  nether 
wwrld,  thus  looked  this  most  wretched  of  women.  Her 
hair  rose  in  stiffening  ranks  above  her  death-pale  face; 
while  her  eyes  rolled  in  horrour. 

Nancy  who  was  sitting  with  her  at  the  time,  marked 
her  dismal  looks,  and  near  frightened  out  of  her  wits  ran 
down  stairs  screaming  to  her  parents  to  come  tip;  for 
Qod's  sake  to  come  nji,  for  that  Matilda  was  dijing. 

*'llie  Lord  have  mercy!"  cried  both  of  them  at  once, 
and  as  fast  as  their  aged  limbs  and  broken  hearts  would 
permit,  hastened  up  stairs.  On  the  floor  lay  their  daugh- 
ter, in  a  strong  convulsive  fit — with  her  head  drawn  back 
— teeth  hard  clenched — foam  at  her  mouth — and  a  fran- 
tick  stare  on  her  lived  eye  balls! 

Great  God!  what  must  her  doating  parents  have  felt 
at  that  sight,  which  not  even  the  rankest  libertine,  (who 
had  but  seen  her  a  few  weeks  before,  arrayed  in  heav- 
enly innocence  and  beauty,)  could  have  beheld  without 
tears!  x'Vssisted  by  the  weeping  servants,  they  placed  her 
on  the  bed.  As  soon  as  she  had  recovered  her  senses,  her 
father  stooped  down,  and  with  a  voice  interrupted  by 
sobs,  asked  her  if  they  should  pray  xvith  her.  She  shook 
her  head,  and  with  a  wildness  in  her  looks  as  if  she  was 
going  again  into  fits,  said,  "no,  no,  don^t  pray  for  me.' 
God  ivillnot  hear  your  prayers  for  such  a  ivretch  as  me/'* 

Her  father  wept  aloud.  After  wiping,  for  some  time, 
Ihe  tears  that  drenched  his  furrowed  cheeks,  he  stooped 
down  again,  and  with  great  tenderness,  said,  ^'why  my 
dear  child,  why  rvill  you  not  let  your  poor  father  know 
tvhat  it  is  that  makes  you  so  unhappy!'* 

*'Know!''  replied  she  with  a  deep  groan,  "oh  that  you 
could  never,  never  know!  butyou  willknow  it  soon  enough! 


41 


yes  miserable  me!  you  ufilL  know  it.'  you  icHl  kuoiv  it! 
you  will  knorv  j7/" 

In  utteriii};  this  lader  part  her  voice  rose  to  a  shriek, 
which  endetl  in  ilreadful  convulsions,  from  which  it  was 
with  j^reat  difliculty  that  she  was  recovered. 

This  last  Ht  of  the  wretched  Matilda's,  with  the  woful 
shriek  and  speech  preceding;,  awakened  in  tlu.'  heart  of 
Mr.  LesJranj^e  a  pang,  in  comparison  oT  which  all  that 
he  had  yet  suirerod  was  a  mere  nothing.  It  is  true,  he  had 
wept  much  on  account  of  his  daughter;  hut  they  were  in 
some  sort,  sweet  and  precious  di-ops,  because  shed  over  a 
dear  child,  whom  though  afflicted,  ho  looked  on  as  lovely 
in  innocence  and  the  cai'e  of  heaven.  But  now,  (jh  hor- 
rible, distracting  thought!  he  began  to  suspect  that  his 
iirst,  his  fairest,  his  de^irest  child,  was  that  vile  polluted 
creature  whom  both  God  and  man  detest.  What  must 
have  been  his  feelings,  as  trembling  and  blank  with  ter- 
ror, he  took  her  own  mother  aside  to  ask  what  could  jMa- 
tilda  have  meant  when  uttering  that  piercing  shriek  she 
said  wc  should  know  if;  we  should  kno7C  it  soou  enough.' 

It  was  made  known  to  them  soon  enough  indeed;  for 
reposing  himself  one  day  in  an  outer  apartment,  unknoxcu 
to  Matilda,  who  lay  in  an  adjoining  room,  he  heard  a 
succession  of  sighs  and  groans  (oo  deep  and  dismal  to 
come  from  a  holy  source.  Presently,  opening  the  parti- 
tion door,  she  came  along  through  the  apartment  where 
he  lay. 

At  sudden  sight  of  her  father,  lill  of  late  the  delight 
of  her  eyes,  the  blood  forsook  her  check,  leaving  thenj 
bleached  with  that  ghastly  terror  which  firm-nerved  in- 
nocence never  knew. 

None  but  a  father  can  fancy  what  this  father  feit  at 
sight  of  such  guilty  confusion  on  a  dear-loved  daughter's 
face.  But  the  stroke  of  death  i(sclf  could  not  equal  (hut 
still  keener  pang  which  he  felt,  when,  glancing  his  eye 
on  her  waUtt,  he  beheld  the  coniirmation  of  all  that  he 
most  dreaded  and  most  abhorred. 

It  was  well  that  he  was  lying  down,  for  utterly  para- 
lyzed by  that  gorgon  sight,  his  nerves  would  certainly 
have  sunk  under  him.     IJke  a  pale  murderess.  Matilda 
G 


^flitted  throngb  the  apartment,  leaving  her  father  to  th^t 
nioumful  silence  so  well  befitting  the  horrors  of  his  mind. 
After  recovering  himself  a  little  from  the  tremor  of  such 
a  sfaoukf  he  sent  for  his  wife,  to  whom|  he  imparted  his 
fears^  begging  she  would  see  their  ruined  daughter  and 
question  her. 

The  poor  broken  hearted  girl  could  not  deceive.  Pale 
as  a  corpse  and  falling  on  her  knees  before  her  mother, 
she  confessed  all.  She  confessed  that  she  was  with  chili! 
Slupified  with  grief  Mrs.  Lestrange  returned  to  her  hus- 
band. Her  looks,  for  she  could  not  speak^  her  looks  con- 
firmed all  that  he  had  too  justly  feared. 

The  wretched  mother  had  not  been  able  to  ask  her 
daughter  for  the  father  of  the  child,  neither  had  she  as 
yet  told  her.  However,  when  asked  she  readily  told 
them  that  it  was  Mr.  Oneale.  His  guilt  in  this  barbarous 
act  was  so  aggravated  by  ingratitude,  as  to  excite  the 
indignation  of  the  family  to  an  unusual  degree.  Good 
old  Mr.  Lestrange  intreated  hi*  family  to  suppress  their 
resentments;  telling  them  that  God  was  the  only  right- 
ful avenger  of  his  own  laws,  and  that  he  thought  it  his 
duty  to  leave  Mr.  Oneale  to  him,  as  to  the  righteous 
Judge  who  best  knew  what  to  do  with  his  ofifending  crea- 
tures. 

This  was  the  last  day  that  old  Mr.  Lestrange  ever  saw 
his  daughter.  He  sent  for  his  sister,  the  wealthy  Mrs. 
Thomson,  to  come  over  and  take  Matilda  home  to  live 
with  her  till  his  death;  for  that  he  bad  made  up  his  mind 
never  to  see  her  again.  Mrs.  Thomson  thought  art  first 
that  her  brother  had  done  this  from  liatred  of  Matilda. 
But  he  said  no — God  was  witness,  that  it  was  not  from 
hate,  but,  contrariwise,  from  love,  for  "0  my  Gi)d.,"  con- 
tinued he,  bitterly  weeping,  '"^when  I  think  how  bright  and 
heavenhj  she  once  was,  how  can  I  ever  think  oj'  seeing  her 
a^ain,  ilisgraced  and  miserable  as  she  now  is/" 

It  docs  not  aj)peiLr  that  Mr.  Oneale  was  ever  touched 
Avith  any  thing  like  remorse,  for  all  the  infamy  and  ruin 
he  had  brought  on  poor  Matilda.  For,  on  hearing  that 
she  was  gone  to  live  with  her  aunt  I'homson,  he  swore 
he  would  renew  his  visits  to  her.-  To  protect  them  from 


48 


insult,  Mr.   Lcslriingt'  advised  liis  son  to  go  over  e\cn 
CTcning  and  sit  witii  his  aunt  and  sister  till  bed  lime. 

George  followed  his  father's  instnietions;  and  for  se- 
veral evenings  took  his  gun,  but  finding  it  troublesome 
he  exchanged  it  for  a  pistol.  The  distanee  from  his 
aunt's  to  his  father's  not  exceeding  a  short  mile,  George 
generally  made  his  visits  on  foot.  As  his  last  visit  on 
this  unpleasant  errand,  eventuated  in  the  sudden  and 
bloody  death  of  Mr.  Oneale,  it  may  gratify  the  i-eader 
to  have  it  stated  to  him  exactly  as  it  happened,  which 
was  as  follows: 

He  had  spent  several  weeks  in  these  daily  visits  to  his 
aunt;  at  length  growing  indignant  at  the  idea  of  thus 
wasting  his  precious  time  on  account  of  an  unprincipled 
villain,  he  started  up,  and  bidding  adieu  to  his  aunt,  set 
off  for  home.  The  foot  path  which  he  followed  soon  led 
him  into  a  deep  forest,  where  every  thing  conspired  to 
nurse  the  gloom  of  his  mind. 

The  season  was  a  silent  afternoon  in  October.  No 
breath  of  air  whispered  through  the  grove,  nor  leaf  shook 
upon  the  trees.  An  awful  stillness  reigned  around,  save 
where  the  distant  crow  uttered  at  times  a  boding  note, 
whose  dying  echoes  served  but  to  deepen  the  horrour  ol 
the  scene.  TJiis  was  a  situation  exactly  suited  to  (he  me- 
lancholy mood  of  George's  mind;  and  sensibly  reminded 
him  of  the  still  deeper  gloom  iiieumbent  on  his  own  dear 
family — that  heavy  gloom  brought  on  by  one  who  ought 
to  have  been  the  last  to  do  them  harm — by  one  who  had 
always  been  treated  as  a  brother  and  a  .voji— and  who, 
under  the  mask  of  religion  and  friendship,  had  complete- 
ly winded  himself  into  the  confidence  of  an  uususpecting 
girl,  and  by  villainous  arts  had  awakened  in  her  bosoni, 
ere  she  was  aware,  those  treacherous  passions  which  it 
was  too  laic  afterwards  to  controul — and  thus,  like  the 
accursed  Lucifer,  had  siratched  from  its  orbit  one  of  the 
brightest  stars  of  female  excellence,  and  with  her  had 
quenched  in  endless  shame  (he  peace  and  comfort  of  a 
once  honourable  and  happy  family. 

In  the  midst  of  such    thoughts    chaHiug  bis   yontliful 
soul  to  vengeance,  he  approached  the  main  county   road 


u 

that  intersected  his  path.  And  behold!  0  mysterious  hea- 
ven! at  the  same  moment,  the  ill  fated  Mr.  Oneale  and 
his  two  young  friends,  the  Messrs.  Halls,  galloping  along 
the  road,  arrived  at  the  same  spot. 

**Jlye  George,  is  that  you!'^  cried  the  younger»>Ir.  Hall 
to  George,  who  wrapped  in  his  cloak  with  eyes  on  the 
ground,  had  not  yet  noticed  them.  Roused  by  the  above 
salutation,  from  his  furious  reverie,  George  looked  up, 
and  lo!  whom  should  his  wrathful  eyes  first  ligtit  upon 
but  the  murderer  of  his  family,  the  detested  Oneale, 
mounted  on  his  elegant  horse,  called  Mayluck! 

In  a  moment,  as  by  instinct,  he  snatched  the  pistol 
from  his  side,  and  calling  out  as  he  presented  it,  "you 
D_N-.D  villain!"  drew  the  trigger.  Nine  buck  shot 
struck  the  body  of  the  miserable  rider  and  three  the 
horse.  Owing,  it  is  supposed,  to  liis  guilty  fright,  Mr. 
Oneale  was  not  conscious  of  a  wound,*  but  his  more  inno- 
cent horse,  having  nothing  to  divert  his  attention,  felt  the 
sting  of  the  shot  so  severely  that  he  ran  off  in  full  speed. 
Mr.  Oneale,  being  an  excellent  horseman,  kept  his  sad- 
dle, and  ultimately  succeeded  in  taking  him  up,  after  he 
had  run  about  half  a  mile.  He  then  felt  an  unusual 
weakness,  which,  at  first,  he  ascribed  to  his  violent  efforts 
jn  stopping  his  horse.  But  feeling  at  the  same  time  a 
strange  warmth  about  his  feet  and  legs,  he  looke<l  down, 
and  behold!  the  blood  was  running  over  the  tops  of  his 
half  boots.  The  Messrs.  Halls  coming  up  found  him  by 
the  road  side  lying  down  on  the  grass. 

Seeing  him  pale  and  bloody  they  hastened  to  him,  and 
tenderly  asked  if  he  was  hurt.  "Ics,"  replied  he,  shak- 
ing his  head,  *Ht  is  all  over  rvilh  me!  George  Lestrange 
has  done  my  business  for  me — and  I  don^t  hlame  him  for 
it.'*  They  then  got  him  up  on  his  horse  again,  and  rid- 
ing one  on  each  side,  supported  him  towards  his  house, 
which  fortunately  for  hint,  was  not  more  than  half  a 
mile  off. 

On  the  road  he  often  called  out,  with  sad  groans,  on  his 
^'childrenj  his  poor  fatherless  children! — the  Lord  have 
mercy  upofi  him;  what  would  become  of  his  poor  children,'' 


45 


lie  liad  been  to  court  that  day;  and  as  k  was  the  hour 
at  which  he  usually  returned,  his  wife,  one  of  the  most 

loving  women  in  the  world,  had  been  looking  for  him 

Soon  then  as  the  yard  gate  was  heard  to  chij),  she  has- 
tened out  to  meet  him,  with  her  two  children,  one  in  each 
hand,  attending  her.  *'()  yoiuler  comes  ourfaDuv!'"'  they 
exclaimed  both  at  once,  at  the  same  time  jumping  and 
pulling  their  mother  to  go  faster  to  meet  him.  But  alas! 
soon  as  they  saw  that  instead  of  galloping  up  briskly, 
as  to  a  wedding,  as  he  was  wont  to  do,  he  moved  along 
slowly,  as  to  a  funeral,  with  a  gentleman  on  each  side 
supporting  him;  their  innocent  Joys  were  all  suddenly 
damped  with  fears  and  mournful  expectation.  But  when, 
on  his  near  approach,  they  Ix'held  his  dismal  state — his 
rosy  cheeks  turned  to  ghastly  pale — deadly  faint  his  late 
brilliant  eyes — with  his  manly  head,  now  nerveless,  loose- 
swiuging  on  his  shoulders,  or  drooping  on  his  breast — 
and  both  himself  and  horse,  bathed  with  blood  still  gush- 
ing in  torrents  from  his  mortal  wounds — what  wonder 
that  at  such  a  sight,  this  tender  wife  sunk  instantly  to  the 
earth  a  pale  victim  of  despair,  while  her  infants  poured 
their  artless  cries  and  tears  over  her  lifeless  face. 

Having  no  time  to  lose,  the  Messrs.  Halls  hurried  llisir 
dying  friend  up  to  the  door,  and  with  the  help  of  the  ser- 
vants got  him  down  and  placed  on  a  bed.  He  then  recov- 
ered liis  senses,  and  begged  that  the  physician  should  be 
sent  for.  Soon  as  he  had  examined  his  wounds  the  phy- 
sician shook  his  head,  and  with  a  sigh  bid  him  prepare 
for  eternity,  for  that  he  could  not  live  over  six  hours. 

He  died  in  horrors  unutterable.  In  his  last  moments 
he  spoke  very  bitter  things  against  his  father  and  mother. 
**Here  am  J,"  said  he  with  a  deep  sigh,  "/yin^  on  my 
dying  bed.'  in  the  mornina;  of  my  doj/s,  suddenly  cut  off! 
and  no  wonder;  for  this  is  rchat  naturally  comes  from 
giving  young  fellows  fine  coats^  and  gay  horses,  and  mo- 
ney, to  gallop  ahout  the  country  into  all  sorts  of  company! 
Oh  had  I  but  been  early  brought  vp  to  religion  and  some 
good  trade,  I  hud  never  come  to  this  miserable  end!"^ 

It  appeared  as  though  good  old  Mr.  Lestrange  was 
never  to   have  an  end  to  his  troubles;  at  least  not  until 


he  reached  that  peaceful  land,  *'where  tlie  wicked  cease 
^rom  troubling^*  For  scarcely  were  those  terrors  sub- 
sided which  had  been  raised  in  his  gentle  bosom  on  hear- 
ing from  George  that  he  had  Jired  at  Mr.  Oneale  in  the 
roads,  before  a  negro  came  and  reported  that  Mr.  Oneale 
wa«  dtfing!  No  wink  of  sweet  sleep  was  enjoyed  by  any 
of  the  family  that  night. 

The  next  morning  early,  doctor  Sirakins,  who  was  a 
sensible  and  pious  man,  a  methodist,  and  a  hearty  friend 
of  the  family,  came  over  to  Lestrange-iiouse.  He 
found  them  just  as  they  were  rising  fr*om  their  knees  at 
morning  devotions.  Seizing  old  Mr.  Lestrange  by  the 
hand,  he  exclaimed,  *'God  hless  t/ow,  mij  dear  old  friendt 
J'o*'  a  jn'actice  in  ijour family  that  tends  ^o  admirahly  hath 
to  sweeten  and  sublime  their  hearts.'* 

The  countenance  of  good  old  Mr.  Lestrange  was  al- 
ready bright  from  holy  communion  with  his  God,  but 
catching  a  still  brighter  glow  from  this  approbation  of 
one  whom  he  so  highly  valued,  he  replied,  "well  doctor, 
if  ijou  are  so  thankful  because  I  maintain  the  worship  of 
God  in  my  family,  what  ought  I  to  be — for  indeed  if  it 
had  not  been  for  tliat,  we  should  have  been  run  mad,  by 
the  afflictions  that  have  lately  come  upon  us." 

Jlere  the  doctor  heaved  a  sigh,  and  looked  tenderly  at 
George;  whossc  melamdioly  air,  and  eyes  that  appeai*ed 
i*ed  with  weeping,  rendered  him  very  interesting. 

*'Comc,  doctor,'^  said  Mr.  Lestrange,  who  had  marked 
the  doctor's  sigh  and  looks  at  George,  *'comc  fell  us  if 
God  has  any  other  trials  in  store  for  us.'* 

^'That  wretched  gentleman  is  dead  sir,"  replied  the  doc- 
tor— "/te  died  last  nightf  a  hard  and  horrible  death.'  and 
now  I  advise  you,  my  dear  boy,"  looking  at  George,  *Ho^ 
go  and  give  yourself  up  to  the  officers  of  justice  imme- 
diately; and  I'll  go  with  you." 

Poor  Nancy,  whose  frightened  imagination  at  once  be- 
held the  officers  of  justice  seizing  her  brother  to  hang 
him,  flew  to  George,  and,  with  her  arms  around  his  neck, 
shrieked  out  most  piteously,  *^oh  brother  George,  brother 
George!" 


47 


Leaving  tlic  house  filled  with  as  loud  and  bitter  lamen- 
tations as  if  he  had  indeed  been  (^oin<2;  to  be  bunt;,  (jiroi'p- 
set  off  for  Wilmington,  aceonipanied  by  the  geni^rous 
doctor  Simkins. 

Many  of  the  rclativesof  Mr.  Oneule,  with  all  the  liber- 
tines of  the  country,  made  great  efforts  to  get  young 
George  Lestrange  condemned:  but,  to  their  immortal 
honour,  the  ladies  of  Wilmington  and  its  vicinity,  made 
still  greater  efforts  for  his  safety  and  comfort.  They 
spoke  of  him  as  the  champion  and  avenger  of  their  sex. 

His  prison  chamber  was  scoured  and  furnished  as  for 
the  reception  of  the  great  Washington.  It  was  perfumed 
with  odours  and  garnished  with  fiurest  flowers;  and  eve- 
ry day  his  board  was  spread  with  dainties,  and  every  night 
his  bed  with  down. 

In  a  little  time  the  strength  of  the  two  parties  was 
fairly  tried  in  court;  and  the  trembling  youth  at  the  bar, 
with  all  his  fair  friends  in  the  crowded  galleries,  heard 
the  sentence  of  manslaughteu! 

Instantly  the  ladies  dispatched  a  courier  with  a  petition 
to  governour  Martin  for  a  purdon,  which  his  excellency 
signed  with  great  pleasure.  The  ladies  then  repaired  to 
the  prison  and  brought  him  forth  in  great  triumph,  and 
the  next  day  escorted  him  to  his  father's  house.  But 
though  the  good  old  father  received  the  returning  son 
with  tears  of  joy;  and  though  the  fulled  calf  was  killed 
to  welcome  both  George  and  bis  fair  deliverers;  yet  alas! 
the  bright  peace  of  fornier  days  never  returned  to  his 
bosom.  His  darling  daughter  defiled  with  whore- 
dom!  AND    HIS    SON    STAINED  WITH    BLOOD,     HIS    ONLY 

SON     GEORGE    WHOM    HE     SO    DEARLY    LOVEdI ll  W  aS    a 

grief  too  heavy  for  age  to  bear,  and  he  was  kindly  re- 
moved to  that  state  were  good  men  weep  no  more.  His 
broken  hearted  widow  was  soon  laid  to  rest  by  his  side. 

Their  son  did  not  survive  them  long.  Though  the 
EXECUTIVE  had  forgiven  him  for  the  death  of  Oneale,  h«' 
never  forgave  himself.  To  have  assailed  his  poor  brother 
man,  so^«rjoi/s/j/ — and  so  unfeelingly  to  have  cut  him  oiV 
I'rom  life  and  wife,  from  children  and  friends,  and  hurried 
him,  H  bloody  corpse  to  the  grave,  and  his  soul,  in  all  its 


J     ^  -.  48 


^ 


fiiH  blown  sius,  to  the  dread  tribunal!  "this  cruei.  act,'^ 
as  be  frequently  and  pathetieally  called  it,  like  the  worm 
that  never  dietb,  tortured  bim^layand  night.  In  a  few^ 
weeks  he  was  laid,  a  mere  skeleton,  by  the  side  of  his  sis- 
ter Nancy;  as  she  was,  just  nine  days  before,  by  her 
mother. 

Thus  did  this  single  act  of  a  wanton  daughter  involve  in 
hellish  gloom  one  of  the  happiest  families  that  ever  lived, 
and  in  less  tban  a  twelvemonth  consign  them  all  to  the 
grave — except  the  fair  adultress  herself.  She,  wretched 
woman!  still  lives  to  mourn  her  own  sad  fall  and  its  dis- 
mal  consequences. 

Daughters  of  beauty!  when  you  read  the  impure  glance, 
in  the  eye  of  one  who  calls  himself  your  frfcnd,  think,  oh 
think  of  Matilda  Lestrange — and  be  wise. 


How  blest  the  maid  who  firmly  treads* 

In  honor's  blissful  ways; 
Nor  ever  from  the  sacred  paths 

Of  virtue's  dictates  strays. 


FINIS 


